“Ah, different I am,” Juniper said, grinning and dropping further into a stage-Irish brogue for an instant. “Me sainted mither was a fair Irish rose, d’ye see? From the Gaeltacht, at that-Achill Island.”
In her normal voice: “She met Dad while he was in the Air Force, over in England; his side of the family are Scots-Irish with a very faint touch of Cherokee. Mom had a genuine brogue, bless her, and spoke the Gaelic to me in my cradle; and for my type of music, a hint of the Celt does no harm professionally, so I make a habit of keeping it up. Did make a habit.”
“Just the opposite for me. My father was Air Force too-Vietnamese air force, of course. He flew us out in a helicopter, but I don’t really remember-”
Juniper held up her left hand and pulled the horses in;
Sally fell silent at the sharp sudden movement. Then Juniper set the brake lever and stood, shading her eyes.
Terry and Eilir had been tearing along the roadside verge, playing some game; he’d even picked up a little Sign over the past few days. Cuchulain had been romping along with them when he wasn’t chasing rabbits real and imaginary.
Now he stopped by the gate and looked uncertain, running back and forth a bit with his tail down.
“He smells something he doesn’t like,” Juniper said, handing over the reins and picking up her crossbow; Dennis was carrying his ax instead.
Dennis caught the same clue. He’d been walking by the horses’ heads; now he stepped away, pushing back the brim of his cowboy hat. His right hand went back and down along the haft of the ax hooked over his shoulder, lifting and flipping it to hold slantwise across his thick chest. Short commons and hard work had started whittling down the beer belly; now he looked like a shaggy ill-kept barrel rather than a melancholy pear.
“What’s wrong?” Sally said sharply.
“Nothing except the fool dog, for now,” Juniper said; she spanned the spare crossbow before she handed it to Sally.
Then her own went into the crook of her arm. “But I’d better take a look.”
She whistled; Terry looked up and touched Eilir’s arm, and they came back to the wagon.
Look after him, and keep an eye out, Juniper signed-too rapidly for Terry to follow, so that the boy wouldn’t take alarm; he still had nightmares.
Be careful, Mom, Eilir replied, getting her own weapon from the wagon and slipping a bolt into place.
“The Fairfaxes friends of yours?” Dennie said as they let themselves through the gate and started cautiously up the laneway that wove between two grassy green slopes.
“Not really friends,” Juniper said, her eyes roving.
About half the Fairfax place was wooded, the steeper northern section; the merely hilly half towards the road and the creek was in pasture and fenced with white boards, apart from a bit in some bluish green grassy crop she didn’t recognize and a substantial orchard. They cut kitty-corner northeast through the ancient gnarled fruit trees; it was apples mostly, with some cherries, only recently pruned and sprayed after years of neglect. Blossoms showed tender pink and frothy white, scenting the air as the two walked beneath.
The house wasn’t visible from the road, being tucked into a steep south-facing hill with a pond in front of it and then more hill beyond, with grass blowing on it among the blue camas flowers.
Too quiet, she thought. Doesn’t feel like there are people there.
Aloud: “Not unfriends either, for all that they’re strong Mormons and went pale when they realized I was an actual living breathing Witch. Frank does me favors with his tractor now and then, and his wife gave me some jam she made last summer, but it’s a nodding acquaintance.”
“You afraid someone less neighborly has moved in?”
“Just fearful in general, Dennie. Hush.”
They went through the last of the fruit trees, and then to their hands and knees below the crest line of the hill; Juniper could go ghost-silent that way, the fruit of months every year of her life following the ways of bird and beast in these wooded hills. Dennis had all the grace of an elephant seal hauled up on a beach, but it probably didn’t matter…
She uncased her bird-watching binoculars-another gift from Great-uncle Earl, who’d shared the hobby-as they lay concealed in the knee-high grass.
The Fairfax place was old, a four-square frame farmhouse built in the 1880s. It had been boarded up and derelict for years before Frank Fairfax bought it. Now the white paint shone in the sunlight; the neat lawn with its flowerbeds went down to the pond, and a tractor tire hung from the bough of a big willow, for the times his grandchildren visited. He’d added a two-car garage, repaired and repainted the barn, and put in some sheds as well. For a retired man of seventy, he drove himself hard; probably a lifelong habit he couldn’t shake.
“His stock are loose,” Juniper said after a moment. “Which he’d never allow.”
There were a dozen sheep lying in the shade of the tree, not far from the pond, fluffy white Correidales with a collie lying close by them; it got up and barked warningly at the humans. The henhouse by the barn gaped empty and silent.
Harder to keep chickens from being eaten, Juniper thought with a chill.
A Jersey cow and her bull calf were hock-deep in the water, drinking; they looked up and blinked mild welcome as they scented the humans, jaws working on mouthfuls of waterweed. She scanned over to the barnyard; the gate there was open, and the fifty-horsepower tractor parked off to one side under its shelter roof. Not far from it was a truck with a seed company logo on its side. Birds flew in and out of the buildings in throngs.
“Silent as the grave,” Dennis said, which made her shiver a little.
“Let’s go see,” she said roughly.
Dennis led with his ax at the ready, and she behind him and to one side with the crossbow held to her shoulder. Fear gave way to sadness well before they came to the veranda with its swing chair and lace-bordered cushions.
“Christ,” Dennis said, lowering the ax and putting a sleeve of his dusty flannel shirt over his mouth.
Juniper tied a bandana from her hip pocket over hers as she approached the door; she could hear the buzzing of flies going in and out of a half-opened window on the second floor, over to her right-the master bedroom. A crow launched itself from the windowsill as she watched, the harsh gruck-gruck-gruck loud in her ears.
Juniper swallowed. I know it’s the natural cycle, she thought. The Goddess was also the Crone, death and darkness as well as light and rebirth were Her mysteries; that was why the scald-crow was sacred to Her. But…
There was a note taped to the glass behind the screen door, and the keys dangled by a cord from the knob. Juniper read it aloud:
“The emergency generator cut out when the main power went and I couldn’t get it started, and nobody else round about seems to be better off. I put our insulin in the icebox. Joan used the last of it yesterday. It was spoiled, but there wasn’t anything else, so I told her there were two doses and injected water myself. I’m sure now she’ll never wake up. I’m starting to feel very sleepy and thirsty and my feet are numb; I’m sorry I can’t give her proper burial, and ask anyone who finds this to try and see that we’re given LDS rites. Sam from the seed company left two days ago to get help and hasn’t come back. I’m going to go let the stock loose so they can water themselves and set out feed while I still have some strength, but the road gate’s closed so they won’t wander too far.
“The second key is to the cellar where our emergency stores are. Anyone who needs them can use them; just don’t waste anything. I think bad times are here, and that’s what they’re for. Whoever reads this, God keep you.”
The next part was probably written later; the strong bold hand was much shakier:
“I can’t keep awake anymore, so I’m going upstairs to be by Joan in eternity as we have been together so long in time. Tell Joseph and John and Dave and June and Kathleen and all the children that we love them. Frank Fairfax.”
Juniper turned away, clearing her thro
at and wiping savagely at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Blessed be,” she said softly, remembering their strained politeness, and the Christmas cookies they’d given Eilir, and the swarm of grandchildren who’d asked permission before they went up into her woods when they visited around Ostara time last year-Easter to Christians.
Silently to herself: Dread Lord of Death and Resurrection, take Frank and Joan Fairfax into Your keeping. Lead them home, that they may find sweet rest in the Land of Summer until they return, as all things are reborn through the Cauldron of the Goddess. So merry meet, and merry part, and merry meet again.
Dennis stood back respectfully as Juniper put a hand to her eyes; he hadn’t known them, after all. Then he looked at the animals, and the open barn as she came down from the veranda; he took the keys from her hand.
“I’m sorry as can be about your neighbors, Juney. But we ought to take an inventory. Their family was in Idaho?”
“Farmers near Twin Falls,” she said. “Potatoes in a large way; Frank said”-she swallowed-“that he couldn’t live without putting in a patch at least.”
She went into the molasses-smelling dimness of the barn; Fairfax had opened sacks of feed, and one of kibble for his sheepdog. There were more flats of pelletized alfalfa up in the loft, grain-and-molasses feed and baled hay-old-fashioned square bales, at that.
Not only some stock, but we can feed it, she thought, a huge weight lifting from her chest. There’s plenty of grazing here and on my place, and this will keep it over the winter.
The milk would be good for Terry, and Eilir… and perhaps she could try her hand at making butter and cheese, there were descriptions in books she had. A vision of Eilir’s face goblin-thin like pictures of an African famine faded from the back of her mind.
And don’t Mormons believe in keeping a lot of food on hand? Maybe that’s what he meant by emergency stores. The Fairfaxes took all that seriously, I think. I’ll look up some Mormons to do the rites their way when I can, she promised herself.
Twin Falls, Idaho, might as well be on the far side of the Atlantic for all the good the Fairfaxes’ family would get out of their stuff here, and they were probably better off than anyone on the western side of the Cascades anyway.
But Eugene isn’t that far away, she thought. Dare I go and try and find Rudy? The place would probably be chaos and madness and stalking death by now. But dare I not try, Goddess? Didn’t You descend to Annwyn for Your consort? And there’s Chuck, and Judy, and Diana …
Then Dennis burst in, flourishing his ax. “Seed potatoes!” he yelled. “The sacks read ‘Oregon Foundation Seed Program Certified Potatoes!’ The man must have been on a delivery run when the Change hit; Juney, there’s a couple of tons of planting spuds on the truck. And the whole basement’s stuffed with canned food and preserves and flour and medicines and seeds and candles and you name it! We’re saved!”
She threw herself at him, and they whirled about in an impromptu dance, whooping with glee. After a breathless moment she broke free.
Thanks be, Mother-of-All. I see what You’re telling me.
He was still exclaiming and waving the ax when her face went sober.
“What’s wrong, Juney?” he said. “We can plant enough potatoes up by your place to keep us going all next winter, if we hurry-and there’s enough to feed us all until October in style, too.”
“Provided nobody comes up the road with bad intent,” she said. “There’s an old logging track from the back of the Fairfax place to the cabin. We’ll use that up to the cabin, and get things in order. And then we’ll start.”
“Planting potatoes?” Dennie said curiously.
“We’ll start doing what we can for the world.”
“For the world?”
Juniper waved a hand at the barn. “The Mother-of-All’s been good to us, Dennie. But She’s giving us a message, too. We have to pay back, if we don’t want the luck to leave us-threefold return for good or ill.”
“Whoa,” Chuck Barstow said, easing back on the reins. The other two wagons and the walking coveners halted too.
It was a bright, breezy spring day; sixty or a little more, and no sign of rain, for a wonder. The big yellow school bus ahead had swerved half off the road. That was a narrow country two-lane blacktop, fifteen miles north of Eugene and a few east of the I-5. They hadn’t seen anything but a few local farmers on foot and the odd horseman for hours, which was a relief.
The wagons could carry a lot, but they couldn’t do it very fast or for very long at a time, not without killing the horses. He wasn’t an expert-he knew just enough to put the harness on properly-but he knew that, from Juniper’s tales of her team and what he’d picked up at RenFaires and Society events.
Faces came to the windows of the bus, and two small figures ran out, jumping up and down and waving their arms at the adults.
Chuck blinked again. It was a boy and a girl, both nine or ten, both in white shirts and green blazer jackets with some crest on the breast pocket, shorts and brown shoes and knee socks. One had tow blond hair and the other dark red braids and freckles.
“Please!” the boy cried. “Sanjay’s sick!”
“We’re hungry,” the girl added. “And we don’t have any more water, either. Not good water.”
Chuck’s eyes flicked to the bus again; Washington plates, and they’d been heading north when things… Changed. Why on this side road and not I-5, the Lord and Lady alone knew.
More children came crowding out of the bus; he counted twelve, all about the same age. Diana pulled up the second wagon, and the coveners on foot gathered around-all the adults had tools over their shoulders, long-handled pruning hooks or shovels or pitchforks. The garden-supply store manager had been willing to accept personal checks; they’d cleaned him out of most of his seed-for plants you could eat-and the tools could double as weapons at need. He thought they might have stopped a few fights already, simply by being there.
It was a new experience, being envied for his wealth; he didn’t much like it. The coveners looked at the children with troubled eyes; their own children mostly glared at the newcomers with pack-instinct suspicion.
“Sanjay’s really sick,” the boy went on.
Before Chuck could open his mouth, Judy was off the bench with her bag in hand. Chuck hesitated, ran a hand over his receding blond hair, then shrugged and followed.
“Dorothy, would you mind watering them?” he asked, in passing.
The horses stood patiently, twitching their hides occasionally or tossing a head in a jingle of harness. Chuck’s own nose twitched as Judy walked up the stairs by the vacant driver’s seat. Sanjay was at the back of the bus, lying on an improvised pallet of coats and covered with more of the same; the children had made a clumsy effort to clean up the vomit, but he’d obviously fouled himself as well. His clammy, sweating brown face looked at them with bewildered hope-he was South Asian, by the name and the delicate fine-boned features.
Judy knelt by his side; the boy was groaning faintly and moving, clutching at his middle. She brought out an old-fashioned mercury thermometer and her stethoscope and began an examination.
“Mister,” the tow-haired boy said. “I’m supposed to give you these.”
These were notes. The first was from a Ms. Wyzecki, teacher at St. George’s, Washington, in brusque no-nonsense tones: None of the local people know what’s going on, it finished. I am going to contact the authorities.
A list of addresses and phone numbers followed. The driver’s note was short and to the point: The kids are getting hungry. I’m taking the bike and going to see where the hell Ms. Wyzecki is, or where there’s something to eat, or both. If I’m not back by the time you read this, look after them. They’re good kids.
The first was dated Thursday morning, the second Friday at noon, twenty hours ago.
“Chuck!”
Judy’s voice was sharp, her nurse-practitioner tone. He looked up.
“This boy has a stomach bug-conta
minated water. I’m going to have to rehydrate him with a drip, and then he needs to be cleaned up and kept warm. I won’t use an antibiotic unless he gets worse-Goddess knows when I can get more. Bring him!”
He did; the other children gathered round him solemnly as he laid Sanjay down on a tarp and Judy began to work.
“He drank water from the ditch when the bottles ran out,” the mahogany-haired girl said. “I told him not to.”
“Oh, sweet Goddess Queen of Heaven,” Chuck groaned to himself.
“Do you mean Mary, Jesus’ mother?” the girl asked curiously.
“Sort of,” he replied, looking around at the others.
“I’m named Mary too. My brother’s Daniel. We all went to the play in Ashland, and we were supposed to be taking notes on the countryside.”
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, solemnly shaking hands.
Like many kids their age, these seemed to have an almost catlike concern for propriety and routine. A few were sniffling or crying with sheer relief at the arrival of adults, and accepting hugs; others were more timid. Mary and Daniel weren’t crying, not out loud, but a little of the look of strain left their faces.
I cannot leave these kids here to die, he realized suddenly. I simply can’t.
“Let’s set up a cookfire,” he said to Diana. “We’ll need sterilized water.”
“I’ll get the water jugs,” Andy said. “We could heat up some miso soup. If they haven’t eaten for a day and a half, they’ll need something easy to start with.”
The others split apart, to get at goods packed in a hurry, or to calm their own children.
“Can you take us home?” the redheaded girl said, after her first ecstatic gulp of water. “Our parents are going to be really worried. I mean, we couldn’t phone or anything.”
“We can’t take you home just now,” he said. “Where do they live?”
“Mom lives in Seattle. Dad moved to Los Angeles after they… well, they had a big fight.”
You’ll probably never see either again, then, he thought. Aloud: “Well, we’ll just have to look after you until we can find your folks.”
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