by Lisa Shea
I give my head a short shake. “Track me?”
He nods. “Somewhere south of the border, in a plush, air-conditioned office full of leather chairs and mahogany furniture, the wardens have an entire wall made up of a map of Noda. And on that map is a speckling of little red dots. Each one of those dots represents one of you. And as they move and twist over the map, the wardens watch.”
His grin grows toothy. “Should one of those dots stray within one hundred feet of the gate, the turrets lock on automatically. POP, and it’s Christmas time for the rest of us.”
I look down at my garb, at the beaded leather jacket and the dark leggings. “You’re mistaken,” I insist. “I removed every item of clothing less than forty-eight hours after I got in.” My eyes glance at the guns at my side, and my brow creases. “Or is this a ruse to get your hands on my guns and ammo?”
He laughs at that, giving a wave with his rifle. “If I wanted your weapons, I wouldn’t need any lights or alarms to take those,” he points out. “No, the tracker isn’t on you.”
“Then how –”
He leans forward, his eyes bright with delight. “It’s in you.”
A cold tremor runs through me, and my eyes sweep the other men on the wall. They are nodding in agreement. This is not some sort of a ruse.
I bring my eyes back to the lead guard. “So how do I get it out?”
His laugh is rich with amusement. “Oh, Old Sanders tried that. He came to our gates time and time again, each time with a new gouge in his thigh; a new bloody bandage at his arm. A hunter found his corpse, finally, one afternoon in February. The old fool had tried to carve out his right eye.”
He shakes his head. “Maybe you’ll be like Jacobs instead. He spent his days spelling out foul words with his movements. I bet the Wardens had a field day with that. Until, of course, a cougar got to him. Shame, that. Jacobs had a good way of spinning a yarn.”
He motions with his head, and the door behind me pulls open with a creak. The guard looks down on me again. “Head south,” he advises. “Easy pickings down there, with the tangs coming in every few weeks. Best thing for you Reds.”
I purse my lips, but say nothing, backing up steadily through the open gates. He holds his bead on me until I pass through them. The thick wooden doors give a hollow thud when they seal.
He brings the rifle back into a neutral position, gives me one last look, then returns his gaze to the distant horizon, as if I had ceased to exist.
I turn and walk north on the thin path between the river on my left and the walled fortress on my right. At last the structures are behind me, and only the looping river stretches before me, quiet and desolate.
I know my next step with every drop of blood in my body. Somehow, no matter what it takes, I have to get this thing out of me.
Chapter 4
I follow the river for about an hour north, every sense on alert, attentive to any sign that I am being followed. When at last I am sure I am alone, I strike out east. I know the Pilgrim’s Trail is somewhere further west, and I want to stay as far as possible from people if I’m going to take on this challenge. Who knows how large this tracker is, how hard it will be to remove, or how long I will need to recuperate for after it’s gone.
I climb up the dry clay of the bluffs, then head out across a low, grassy meadow. Orange butterflies circle over waving flowers of gold and crimson. It is only a half hour before the banks of a large lake stretch before me. Just ahead of me is an island, perhaps thirty feet off shore, thick with trees.
Perfect.
I half-swim, half-wade the channel to get to the island. To my pleasure, I discover a small one-room shack at its center, with a neatly made fire pit out front. I push open the sturdy door to find a rough cot, a low table, and one straight-backed chair. A trio of shelves holds a small tin cup, an assortment of hooks, and a spool of fishing line. A rough but serviceable rod leans against a wall. The place is coated in dust. It seems the owner, whoever he was, has been away for a while.
I drop the bar across the door and draw the shutters shut against the setting sun. The small metal latch won’t hold out a determined attacker, but it would at least alert me to his presence.
My stomach grumbles again, but the sun is at the horizon now, and shadowy darkness has fallen across the lake. Food will have to wait.
Red lights flash in my eyes, blinding me, accompanied by the blaring of an alarm and harsh laughter. A sharp pain stabs at my hip, but I hold myself still, knowing that motion could bring death.
The matted hair of the woman swings as she laughs at me, her eyes glaring with hatred. “Red!” she screams. “Red, red, red!”
Then, the softest of whispers, the warmth of breath against my neck. “Shhhhhh ….”
The dream tumbles away.
I stand before my shack in the early morning sunlight, my arms high over my head, soaking in the warmth of the glowing light. My calf still gives its low throb, but for some reason I am absolutely sure it is the sharper stab at my hip which indicates the tracker. If I am going to take this on, I will need to plan out supplies.
I fish for a few hours, ending up with two walleye and a large-mouthed bass. I set them up to smoke over the campfire, then turn to my next task.
There are chokeberry bushes, and I find a mound of the dark green, wide leaves that indicate American groundnuts beneath. I brush the dirt off of one of the small, onion-like roots and take a bite.
Just right.
Next, I track down a fluff of St. John’s Wort growing under a stand of birch trees. Certainly not as good as whiskey for what I am planning, but it will have to do. I grind it up into a paste, mixing in some of the clay-mud from the river bank. Hopefully its mild antiseptic qualities will serve me well.
The large-mouthed bass makes a good meal.
I take off my shirt, wet it in the lake, and then go inch by inch through the cabin, clearing out all dust and grime. By the time late afternoon comes, I am satisfied. The place is certainly no operating room, but it will serve.
The hook and shiv get sterilized in the fire, and I am ready.
I lay the smoked fish, berries, and other supplies on the table within easy reach. I prop myself up on the cot, leaning back against the wall, and give one final look down to my hip. The smooth surface of my skin beckons to me, the stillness of a placid summer lake, waiting for that first person to leap in with a delighted scream.
I draw the shiv in a straight line, parallel to my hip.
The blood bubbles up, like water from an underground stream, and my body arches against the pain which wells against it. I bite back the scream, focusing on the task at hand.
I slide my fingers along the moist, sticky length, seeking for any nodule, any irregularity. There is none. Only the slick skin and ripple of muscle beneath.
I cut again, deeper this time, pressing through the layer of muscle. The pain is intense, and I gasp for breath, groaning against the sensation. My fingers push through the liquid and sinew, and there is nothing. I wonder if the device is microscopic, beyond my ability to find. I could be stuck with this thing in me forever.
Not on your life.
I pull the shiv again, a scream rips out of me, and the world goes crimson and flickers toward dark. I struggle to retain consciousness. I drive my fingers in, and the pain is more than I thought possible. I push, push, and I hear my voice call out a desperate plea, although for who or what I cannot tell.
“Ishtato!”
My fingers close around a capsule, small, hard, perhaps a half-inch in length.
I collapse back against the cot. I put the object on the table, then use my shirt to wipe back the blood. Taking up the hook and line, I carefully sew the skin shut, each stitch more agonizing than the last. At last I tie off the knot with shaking hands. Then I scoop a handful of the antiseptic mud and layer it on top, bandaging it in place with my shirt.
My head falls back against the cot; shadows overtake me.
I am lying in a teepee,
the fragrant smoke drifting lazily up through the hole in its center. My calf is throbbing with angry heat, but a cool cloth is drawn across my forehead, and I relax under the familiar touch.
I am lying on the cot in the run-down fishing shack, my hip twisting in agony. A cool cloth is pressed to my forehead, and my eyes flutter closed again.
A voice comes from above me, sure, steady. “Shhhhh ….”
Morning light is streaming in through the gaps in the shutter, and my side feels as if it is on fire. I bring a hand to my forehead, wincing at the heat I feel coming from it. I reach over to the cup, drinking down a swallow of the cool water, then eat the smoked sunfish with my hands.
The world fades away.
The rich smell of vervain surrounds me. I am in a shadowy cave, the walls curving up and around me. Delicate traceries of curls, like twisting smoke, decorate the walls. There is warmth at my back, and I nestle into it, my shoulders easing.
The morning light pulls me into wakefulness. I draw in a breath, then groan. The light smoking I gave the fish has run its course; it is past safe for eating. I run a hand shakily through my hair. The chokeberries will have to do.
There’s a thunk at the door.
My hand reaches automatically for the gun on the table, and I glance down at my bandaged hip before carefully rolling on my side. I push up on my opposite leg and hop the short distance over to the door. I wait a long moment, listening.
The wind whistles across the lake, but other than that there is only silence.
At last I push the bar aside and carefully crack the door open. A mourning dove lies at my feet, its neck at an odd angle. Apparently it had flown by mistake into the door.
I give a smile of gratitude, then hobble forward to the ring of stones. In short order I have a fire going, and the dove, while small, makes a good meal of protein. Paired with the chokeberries, I almost feel full.
I check the bandages, and to my relief there is no sign of infection on the wound. Its edges are still sensitive, but the skin appears to be knitting properly.
I climb back into the cot and let sleep take me.
I step into a large cave. Its walls painted green, and a sense of ease sweeps over me. I am home; I am safe.
I blink my eyes open in the dark night, and a pair of eyes are watching over me, dark green, steady, serious. My lids flutter closed again.
I am safe.
I use my shiv to carve a small rectangle of fabric from the bottom of my shirt, then use the hook and fishing line to sew it into a nickel-sized pouch. I rinse off the small capsule and peer at it beneath the morning light. It is transparent, and I can see a wealth of wires and glowing crimson lights within it, sparkling. I can’t let them know I have it out of me, not just yet, not until I figure out some sort of a plan. I tuck the capsule into the pouch, and then use line to create a lanyard to wear it around my neck.
I look at the remaining hooks, and I sit in the morning sun, fashioning them into a bracelet, stringing them around my wrist in a winding pattern. I tie the loop of fishing line to my belt. One more day and I should be good to go.
I catch a catfish, roast it over my campfire, and enjoy it with a handful of groundnuts. Then the shadows lengthen, and I climb back into the cot.
The stag guards high on its overlook, his eyes sweeping the valley below, attentively keeping watch. His eyes turn to hold mine, and they are deep green.
A hawk circles overhead, protecting his nest and mate in the crevice below. I assure him that I would not disturb the fledglings, that I am only here for the feathers. He gives a long, drawn-out cry, and his green eyes hold mine.
A hand draws across my brow.
I swim the short distance from the island to the mainland. My hip is at a low throb, but nothing I cannot handle. My hand goes to the pouch at my chest, and I let out a breath. First to find something to do with this tracker, and then to get to that gate.
Chapter 5
I reach the river again just after noon and follow as it wends its way north, taking my time. My hip aches, but it is manageable, and I know better than to race. Time invested in healing now will pay off dividends in faster travel in only a day or two.
I soak in the beauty of the landscape – the rising grey bluffs to the east; the stretch of prairie past the river to the west. Meadowlarks dart out from a stand of birch, while pied-bill grebes paddle in a quiet corner of the river, going tail-up in search of small fish. I’m reminded that Ragnor had called this realm a wasteland. To me it is a place of stunning richness.
By late afternoon my step has slowed to a point where I consider stopping for the day. No need to push myself too hard. Perhaps just a short distance further, to seek out a quiet hollow to provide some shelter.
I come around a corner and blink in surprise.
There, ahead of me, the river takes a short jog sharply west, then makes a large loop around to come back to its course again. The eastern side of this circle is a tall bluff, with a grassy ridge along its crest. In the center of this natural island lays a neat collection of tannish-white teepees. Delicate spirals of smoke trail up from them. A small herd of appaloosa horses is tucked away to its west, safely within the curve of the river.
I go still, quite sure that their scouts have already spied me. To retreat now would seem suspicious, and I am in no shape to fend off an attack. I roll my shoulders, take in a deep breath, then start in motion again, moving slowly but steadily toward the small village.
The group gathers as I approach, and by the time I reach the mouth of the village a welcoming committee of sorts has formed. The tribe is dressed in a mixture of traditional and modern outfits, some buckskin tunics mixed in with cotton shirts and dark jeans. Men and women are wearing knives, revolvers, and bows in various combinations. To a person their hair is long, black, and plaited in two long braids. Young children hang further back, peering at me in interest.
An elderly man steps forward, his face ridged with wisdom. “Welcome to Oyate,” he greets me. “Today is a special day – it is the birth day of Born-in-Battle, one of our youngest. Please, come join us.”
A young boy, about four, with ink-dark eyes in a beautifully embroidered deer-skin tunic, runs past the adults to take my hand. He stares up at me. “Hawk!”
A woman with the complexion of soft sienna steps forward, a gentle smile on her lips. “Come now, Born-in-Battle. Let our guest rest a while.” Her features match the youngster’s so closely that it’s clear she is his mother.
His gaze is insistent on me. “Hawk!”
I bring my eyes up to his mother in curiosity. “Hawk?”
Her eyes hold mine with quiet placidity. “The embroidery on your jacket,” she points out.
I glance down and nod. I’d forgotten completely about that.
The child pulls on my hand with steady effort. “Come! Come!”
I smile, then allow myself to be led to the center of the village, where blankets have been spread. There are carved wooden bowls full of fragrant gruel, platters of roast pheasant, a stew of catfish, and numerous other offerings. My stomach growls loudly, and the woman smiles.
I take the indicated seat, and others return to their own locations, taking up the meal that my presence had apparently interrupted. The child is close at my side, peering at the beads on my jacket, at the guns at my hip. His look is bright and curious, and I find myself smiling at his ready enthusiasm.
The mother passes me a bowl of fried prairie turnips, and the delicious aroma sets my mouth watering. I take one and bring it to my lips. It tastes just as good as it smells.
Born-in-Battle’s eyes follow my hand, and his gaze lights on the hook bracelet I wear on my wrist. He is transfixed.
“Pretty!”
I tuck the last bit of prairie turnip into my mouth, then lower my wrist so he can see it more closely. He turns it around, staring at it with fascination.
I look to his mother in concern. “The barbs are sharp,” I warn her.
She smiles at t
hat, then looks down at her son. “Born-in-Battle, show Hawk your knife.”
The lad dutifully reaches to his hip and draws out the small dagger worn in a leather sheath. He takes it in both hands and presents it to me.
I lift the blade and run a finger along its edge. No toy, here. The child could be lethal if he chose to be. I nod and return his knife to him, which he deftly tucks back into its place.
I undo my bracelet and present it to him. “Happy birthday, Born-in-Battle.”
His mouth turns into a round O of delight, and in seconds he has latched it closed around his wrist. It hangs loose, but he tilts his arm up to hold it in place, then circles the ring of people with pride, showing it off to each person in turn.
His mother smiles at me, nodding. “Thank you, that was kind of you.”
I look at the wealth of food before me and take a sip of the apple cider. “It was kind of you to allow a stranger into your celebration,” I respond.
She turns as a plate of elk is passed to her. She takes the knife from her hip, saws off a small portion, then tucks the meat into her mouth. She turns to pass the plate to me.
I put it down before me, then my face flames. The only blade I have on me is the spoon shiv I took off of Ragnor’s corpse. It feels quite inappropriate to bring that out in the middle of this child’s party.
The mother’s eyes drop to my hip, and her brow creases slightly. “You have no knife?”
She says it in the same tone that one might say they had lost a leg.
I am formulating a response when her hand moves to her belt. She removes the leather scabbard and knife which hang there. She lays them across both hands and presents them to me.
“Here.”
I look from the scabbard to her in surprise. The scabbard is clearly a labor of love, with circling spirals tracing along its edges. The hilt of the blade is leather wrapped, and I had seen how sharp the edge was when she cut her meat.