by Kage Baker
“I am, sir,” said the actress.
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Brontë.” Lewis swept her hand to his lips. “I have so enjoyed your novels. May I introduce myself? Mr. Owen Lewis, and this American gentleman is my friend, Mr. Capra.”
“Hi,” said Joseph.
Charlotte Brontë inclined graciously and peered down at the watch pinned to her bosom. “Thank you. Today’s tour includes the authentic locations that inspired my late sister Emily in her depiction of the principal scenes from Wuthering Heights. We depart presently; shall we wait for you to join us?”
“How much are the tickets?” Joseph asked.
“Thirty pounds,” said Miss Brontë coolly. “Per person.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Joseph said.
“You may, of course, elect to wait in the parsonage until the costumed tour returns in three hours, when the bargain-rate tour will be given.” Miss Brontë stared him down. “Though I must warn you that the parsonage has, of course, no central heating, a fact that led, indirectly or otherwise, to the early deaths of several of my dear sisters.”
“Joseph, you’ll regret it if we pass up an opportunity like this,” Lewis cajoled. “I know I will.”
“I said I had a credit line, not a money tree.”
“We won’t be a moment,” promised Lewis, and grabbing Joseph by the elbow, he hurried away to the parsonage. Miss Brontë sauntered back to the omnibus, swinging her reticule with an air of triumph.
“That cost a goddam fortune,” growled Joseph five minutes later, as they emerged from the parsonage decked in Inverness cloaks and rather poorly made felt top hats. “And this is really not a guy thing, Lewis.”
“For heaven’s sake, can’t you at least enjoy the irony of it all?” said Lewis. Besides, if you don’t want the Company to think you’re planning something, this is certainly a good cover. What possible reason could you have for doing something like this other than impulsive, spur-of-the-moment fun?
Joseph just growled again. They hurried to the omnibus, presented their tickets to Miss Brontë, and took their seats.
Three hours later they returned to the car, pausing to open the boot of the Austin.
“I can’t believe you didn’t enjoy that,” said Lewis, as Joseph carefully loaded in the six jugs of Brontë liqueur he had purchased at the gift shop.
“I guess I’m just not literary,” Joseph said, changing his mind and removing one of the jugs. He carried it around to the front of the car and got in.
“You’ve no appreciation of high romance, that’s your trouble,” Lewis said, climbing in and starting the motor.
Joseph nodded somberly. “Boy meets girl, girl loses boy, everybody dies. I just don’t get it. What those kids needed was some tuberculosis inoculations and a whole lot of Prozac.” He broke the seal on the jug and sampled the liqueur. “Wow. Or this. Want some?”
“Not while I’m driving. Do you want to get us arrested?” Lewis headed back in the direction of the A629.
“At least that would be a guy thing,” Joseph retorted.
They zigzagged back and forth across the Yorkshire Dales, gradually working their way north. They stopped at a Herriot museum and had their photographs taken with a Clydesdale horse; bought All Creatures Great and Small tea towels and a Yorkshire Dale cake in a tin enameled with scenes from Herriot’s books; passed through villages with names like Blubberhouses, Winksley, Snape, and Patrick Brompton.
“Where are we going now?” Joseph said, taking another gulp from the liqueur jug.
“Quite a historically significant spot, actually,” Lewis said, brushing crumbs of Dale cake from his tie as he accelerated. “Swaledale Anti-Farm, home of the late Audrey Knollys and setting of her celebrated heroic epic trilogy, Commonwealth of Innocents. Don’t tell me: you haven’t read it.”
“What, the Beast Liberation lady?” Joseph shrugged. “Wrote kind of a cross between Animal Farm and Watership Down? I’ve heard of it. Those are the books that will get the Mandated Vegan Laws passed over here, right?”
“And over there, too, in what will be left of the United States,” Lewis said. “There’s already a Beast Liberation Party flexing its muscles in London. Ironically enough, none of the locals want it here; the economy’s still based in farming. Eventually, though, the BLP will get the Herriot places closed down as mere glorifications of beast exploitation. Hang on to those tea towels; they’ll be worth a fortune someday.”
“I guess so,” said Joseph in awe.
He was silent as they continued west, and silent when they turned north at Hardraw. A short distance on, he sat upright and peered around suspiciously.
What’s wrong? Lewis transmitted, keeping his eyes on the road.
Nothing. Nothing now, anyway. But it was right around here that the Ninth got creamed.
Gosh, really? Lewis slowed the car, looking about as if he expected to see hapless auxiliaries being chased by howling blue savages.
I guess I sort of erased the memory. It wasn’t fun. But, you know something else? This is also pretty damn close to the coordinates I was tracing.
Lewis gnawed his lower lip. That’s an awfully big coincidence. It’s also rather close to the location of that job I had up here.
No kidding? Weird.
They drove on in silence. A moment later they came upon a wayside inn and gift shop styled THE INNOCENTS, beyond which loomed the flank of a steep hill.
Suggest that this looks like a good place to stop, transmitted Joseph urgently. Out loud, now!
“I wonder if this shop sells Bournville bars?” mused Lewis obediently, pulling into the row of graveled parking spaces. “Would you mind if we looked? I must confess I’m finding the scenery a bit depressing.”
“Sure,” said Joseph in his most casual voice. “Say, look at those clouds. Might be a good idea to remember there’s a hotel here, if we get caught in a storm. Should we put the top up?”
Lewis keyed in a command on the dash, and the convertible’s top creaked out over them like an opening wing. “May as well do it now, in case it starts while we’re inside.” What is it? Have we reached your coordinates?
This is the spot.
They got out and crunched across the gravel to the shop, looking up doubtfully at the dark sky. A bitter cold wind was sweeping under it, piercing through their coats. They opened the door and stepped into the relative warmth of the shop and an atmosphere of tinkling chimes, fragrant incense, and a vast distant mooing that Lewis, after a millisecond’s startled analysis, identified as recorded whale songs.
“It’s California again,” muttered Joseph.
As if on cue, an American voice spoke from behind a display of crystal pendants. “Can I help you find something?”
“Hello?” Lewis peered around the display and beheld a thin intense lady wearing purple and a lot of Neolithic-styled jewelry. “Do you have any Bournville bars?”
By way of answer the lady pointed to a display stand gratifyingly loaded with sweets. “Right over there, next to the books.”
“So they are.” Lewis smiled his thanks. Joseph followed him around to inspect them.
“Get me some mints too, will you? Hey, look,” he said loudly. “Here are those great books you were recommending. The, uh, Commonwealth of Innocents.”
Must you be devious about everything? Lewis said in exasperation.
“Oh, you have to read those!” the lady informed him, heat and light coming into her voice. She emerged from behind the counter possessively. “You know where you are, don’t you? You’re right smack in the middle of where all her stories are set.”
“I thought Swaledale must be nearby,” Lewis said. “I’ve read them, of course.”
“Aren’t they just—?” The lady put one hand on her bosom, expressing that words failed her. “We named this place for the trilogy, you know, Jeffrey and I. We just couldn’t believe it when we got up here and found out that there’s no museum or plaque or anything about Knollys up at the Anti-Farm. It’s just
sitting there vacant! We’re starting a fund to establish a museum. Donations are always welcome.”
“What a wonderful idea,” said Lewis, gallantly pulling out his wallet.
The lady nodded in vigorous affirmation, ringing up his purchases.
“Right up the road a couple of miles is the meadow with the copse where Silverbell the Gentle is martyred,” she went on, referring to the eponymous bovine saint of the trilogy’s first volume. “And, you won’t believe this, but right in back of us is the very hill where Jeremiah the Valiant leads the Innocents against the Vulpos!”
She was referring to the trilogy’s controversial third volume, wherein the peace-loving barnyard folk band together to exterminate all foxes in one great crusade to rid their world of vicious predators. Lewis explained this in a brief transmission to Joseph, adding:
There have always been rumors of a new trilogy Audrey Knollys was working on at the time of her death, in which the Innocents go after cats and dogs too. No notes ever surfaced, but the mere idea has already caused a schism among her followers.
Joseph gave Lewis a bright inquisitive look. I bet there really were notes, in fact I’d bet there was a completed first draft. Gee, I wonder what could have happened to it? He opened the mints and popped one in his mouth.
I had nothing to do with her accident, if that’s what you’re implying, Lewis said sharply. I simply got there before her executors did. He pressed a ten-pound note into the lady’s hand. “No, keep the change for the museum fund. Please. Is there any kind of tour one can take? Any guidebook to the real-life locations?”
The lady shook her head. “It’s shameful, but there really isn’t. Someday, I just know there will be, but right now—” She lowered her voice. “It’s this country. Don’t get me wrong, I love England and all, but there’s just no initiative here. You know what I mean? I mean, haven’t you noticed that?”
“Absolutely. Is there anybody local we could pay to show us around?” said Joseph.
At this moment a youngish man shouldered open the door, puffing with effort because he was quite stout. He set down the cardboard boxes he’d been carrying and straightened up to glower at the two immortals. He wore black and more Neolithic-styled jewelry, and had cultivated a little sinister beard and mustache to rival Joseph’s.
“Jeffrey, these men are interested in a tour of the trilogy sites,” said his wife hopefully.
“And we’ll pay,” added Joseph.
“Well then,” Jeffrey said, drawing himself up. “Five pounds apiece, just to cover the gas, okay? I’ll take you in the Land Rover.”
“Deal,” Joseph said. Lewis fished out another ten-pound note.
Ten minutes later they were rumbling along a cow path in an old Land Rover, listening to Jeffrey talk. Jeffrey spoke sonorously, pontifically, and at great length, and if either Joseph or Lewis had been actually interested in the trilogy, Jeffrey would have been a great guide, because he clearly knew the books by heart. As it was, they were able to hold a fairly uninterrupted subvocal conversation during his narration, only pausing now and then to murmur appreciatively when he emphasized something with a dramatic silence or sweeping gesture.
They wobbled past the semiruined Swaledale Anti-Farm, acres of weedy earth and a few stone buildings, “the site of Audrey Knollys’s magnificently daring Nonhuman experiment”; they visited various chattering becks or heathery hillsides that had inspired scenes where unforgettably heroic beasts had loved, suffered, and/or died; and at last they charged bumping up a great hill, following its ridge as along the spine of a beached whale. At the highest point Jeffrey turned off the motor, set the emergency brake firmly, and announced:
“We’re getting out here, gentlemen.” He swung open the driver’s door and stepped into a roaring blast of wind.
“Er . . . I don’t like to seem overcautious, but isn’t this spot rather exposed to lightning?” Lewis said, clambering from the Land Rover after him. Joseph followed even more reluctantly. They stood there with their coats whipping behind them as Jeffrey struck an attitude.
“Now, this is my favorite spot. From this point you can see just about every important place mentioned in the entire trilogy, except for the parts set in Leeds, of course. But, see? Back there is the Anti-Farm, and Silverbell’s Copse is clearly visible just over there, and . . .”
Lewis was smiling and nodding, pretending to follow the lecture attentively even as his teeth chattered. Joseph wasn’t watching. He was staring fixedly into a place just below where they were standing, a smooth depression in the flank of the hill, more than a ledge, less than a valley. It was the sort of place where exhausted hikers might sprawl before going on to the top, or perhaps where a handful of desperate men might make a last stand, unable to go any higher.
This is what he was remembering:
Brigantia, AD. 120
WELL, THIS ISN’T GOING to work,” said Ron, staring down at the last of the Brigantes, who had noticed their retreat. He was very, very big—all six of the “Cimmerians” were very, very big men with dun-colored hair and light blue eyes. They also shared other distinct and unusual physical characteristics, which was why the Company had felt it advisable to slip them into the legion as auxiliaries from a nonexistent northern race. Joseph came to peer over the edge and backed away, pale.
“Do you think they’ll try to come up here after us?” he asked, groping for his short sword.
“Oh, yeah,” said Bayard, coming to stand beside Ron. “As soon as they’re done mopping up down there. Poor old Ninth. Ouch! They just took out Gaius Favonius. That’s it. The last of the Syrians are running like hell.”
“Are they getting away?” Gozo and Albert came to watch. The four giants stood there a moment in silence, staring, before Ron said briefly:
“Nope.”
Bogdan and Pancha, who had been scanning the hilltop above the ledge, gave up and joined them, and after a moment’s hesitation Joseph edged close again. He looked out on the carnage below and shuddered. “I’m sorry,” he said desperately.
To a man, the Enforcers shrugged.
“It was their fate,” said Ron. “Soldiers kill, soldiers get killed. Don’t feel bad. You can take some revenge on the Brigantes, if you want. They’re going to be up here any minute.”
Joseph’s blade trembled in his hand, and Gozo burst out laughing.
“Don’t sweat it.” Leaning down, he knocked playfully on Joseph’s helmet. “We’ll do our job, centurion baby. We got what the Company wanted, didn’t we? You were able to observe the whole thing. Now this event shadow’s filled in, Dr. Zeus knows what happened to the original Ninth, and all we’ve got to do is clean up.”
“There’s still the goddam Brigantes,” said Joseph through his teeth, pushing his helmet back on his head.
“You can say that again.” Ron’s voice sharpened as he stepped back. “Here they come. Joseph, stay down, and we’ll keep them off. You’re the observer; just keep those cameras rolling. Axes, guys!”
Joseph sheathed his sword and crouched down, fighting every programmed instinct to wink out in hyperfunction and not touch ground until he was a good five miles away. He obeyed his orders, which had not come from Rome; he held his tiny patch of ground and kept his eyes open, recording what he saw.
The Enforcers cast away the little round oval shields and drew from their cases the particular native weapons of their own unit. These were not blades, nor were they slings or curved bows. They were flint axes of enormous size, bound to oak hafts in leather thongs, beautifully worked, heavily weighted to crush with the blunt ends, slice like razors on the edge. Each Enforcer had two axes.
“Hhhhaaai-ai-ai!” Bogdan said reverently. “Death!”
“Ready them,” said Ron. “Hand-to-hand in thirty seconds. Shit, look at that. Down axes, prepare for javelin cast! Take out that front line!”
Joseph dragged himself to the edge and looked down. The Brig-antes were coming, not swiftly. Winded from the fight below, they advanced almost
lazily, chatting among themselves as they came up the face of the hill. They were followed by the fresh reinforcements that had just arrived, walking easily through the mutilated bodies and the ruined baggage train. He estimated their number at a hundred and six.
The foremost looked up at the ledge, and Joseph saw their eyes widen slightly. Then he heard the noise behind him, the creak of leather armor on six bodies bending all together like the great machines they were, just before they fired in perfect unison and with inhuman force.
No mortal eye could have seen the flight of spears, so swift it was; but Joseph watched them hurtling down the hill and through the Brigantes. Literally through, men two and three deep were falling, shrieking, with gaping wounds front and back as the spears shot on downward, clattering to rest at last on the stones of the little stream below.
The advance halted. The barbari looked at one another big-eyed, drew into groups, muttered together, stared up at the ledge uncertainly now. Joseph turned to look too. The Enforcers had taken up their axes and come to the edge and were just standing there, six very big men, motionless as mountains.
Joseph could see the Brigantes looking, turning to each other and mouthing, Is that all? and shrugging at last and beginning the cautious advance again, flatfooted up the hill, keeping their eyes on the very big men.
Ron drew a deep breath.
“Father of battles,” he moaned. “Lord of justice, drink the blood of the unjust!”
The whole line of the Enforcers began to sway together, in that eerie unison with which they had launched their javelin cast. Their pupils had dilated enormously. To a man, they were smiling now as they rocked in place and contemplated the advancing mortals. First one and then another began to chant, softly at first, apparently disconnected phrases in a language forty thousand years old, a chaos of harmonies that unified into descant on a single melody, beautiful and terrifying, sweet tenor voices from those monstrous chests, those thick necks.
Joseph remembered the language. It was a very simple song: its meaning was only that the wicked must be punished so the innocent might live in peace.