by Angus Wells
She hugged her husband tighter and said against his chest, “I am afraid.”
“We are all afraid.” He stroked her hair, watching the play of firelight on the gold all threaded through with silver, and for a while pretended all was well: that they rested comfortable in their lodge and there was no war, nor any hunger, nor so many burial scaffolds in the trees, nor winter coming on.
But he was akaman of the Commacht, and such pretendings were not a luxury in which he could indulge. There were too many scaffolds in the trees and too many widows weeping in the lodges. The Falling Leaf Moon stood over the camp and soon the White Grass Moon would rise, and there were too few supplies stored up against the cold moons, for there had been no time for hunting with Chakthi’s Tachyn always prowling.
He resisted the urge to sigh, looking past Lhyn’s head to the fire, wishing Morrhyn were there. Even bereft of his dreams, the wakanisha had been a rock on which he might lean. But Morrhyn was gone away, and Racharran could not know if he was slain by the Tachyn as Lhyn feared, or lived, or starved, or … It was, Racharran thought, as if all the world had gone mad, all turned upside down and shaken by forces he did not understand. Chakthi pressed his war long past the time of fighting—no one fought after the Moon of Ripe Berries was gone—and surely the Tachyn must be as poorly set for winter as his own Commacht. Ach, even Yazte had called back his Lakanti warriors to cull the buffalo herds as they migrated, that his people have hides and meat and rich marrow to see out the winter. He had apologized, and Racharran could not argue. How could he ask the Lakanti to go hungry when the wolf winds blew and the grass was all hard and white, and the herds went away to the south? He could not; he could only accept Yazte’s promise of charity, that whatever excess the Lakanti took would be gifted to the Commacht.
As if my clan is become a widow, he thought bitterly, dependent on charity.
And Juh and Tahdase, for all he had sent messengers entreating their aid, had done nothing. Save take their people far from the fighting, as if it were none of their affair but only a squabble between the Commacht and the Tachyn, which Racharran, even without Morrhyn’s advice, sensed it was not. He thought then of what Morrhyn had said of a dark wind blowing over Ket-Ta-Witko, and shivered.
“What?” Lhyn asked, and he drew the furs up closer and held her and said in answer, “Nothing. Only a chill.”
And thought, Such a chill as I’ve never known, as if the Frozen Grass Moon rises and sets its cold claws in my bones.
He closed his eyes and thought of what folk said of Morrhyn: that the wakanisha betrayed his clan; that he was gone mad; that the Maker turned his face from the Dreamer. None of it to Racharran’s face, but he heard the whispers and could do little to prevent them, for Morrhyn was gone away and even Racharran must wonder if that was wise. He must fight anger then, for he wanted the wakanisha with him, even dreamless. Morrhyn could at least interpret the Ahsa-tye-Patiko, which seemed to Racharran all sundered and forgotten, and help him hold the young men in check.
They chafed at his decision that the clan avoid conflict as best it could, arguing that it were better they fight fire with fire and attack Chakthi’s folk as the Tachyn attacked them. Some had ventured to attempt that, and had ridden onto the Tachyn grass. Not many had come back. Rannach’s comrades—Zhy and Hadustan—had been amongst them, and now their bones lay unhonored in the Tachyn country and Bakaan limped from a wound in his thigh where a lance had pierced him, and cursed and muttered that Rannach would make a better leader than his father.
It was hard to keep them controlled: they were like young buffalo bulls eager to test their mettle. But the Maker knew, there was surely fighting enough. It seemed that no matter where the Commacht went, even to the farthest reaches of the clan’s territory, still Chakthi sent his warriors against them. It was as if grief made him mad, blind to the needs of his own people, consumed by a dreadful hatred that lusted entirely for destruction.
Racharran could not understand that. How Chakthi could ignore impending winter, when surely his folk must suffer, in pursuit of vengeance? He prayed that the rising of the White Grass Moon see an end to the fighting, but doubted, even as he prayed, that it should.
Then he thought of Rannach and Arrhyna and prayed they be safe, and Morrhyn, and into his mind came oozing doubt and accusation. Had Rannach only heeded his pleas and not sought Arrhyna for his bride, none of this would have happened. And then that had Rannach only come to him when he found Arrhyna stolen, Vachyr might still live and Chakthi have no cause to fight. He felt anger then, at his son’s pride and wilfullness, and then guilt—for had Rannach not come back and honestly presented himself to the Council and accepted his punishment? Save Chakthi saw it not as punishment but salvation, and ignored his own son’s sins and looked for blood.
The sigh that Racharran had earlier stifled burst forth. His wounded arm throbbed and a weight sat in his soul that so many suffered and died and he had no answers save to run.
“What is it?” Lhyn rose on an elbow. “Does your arm hurt you?”
“A little,” he said. “It’s nothing. I think we must strike camp tomorrow.”
“Again?” She checked his bandaged arm as she spoke. “So soon?”
“We must make winter camp soon.” He shifted as she examined his arm. He did not, at that moment, want her to see his eyes, the worry there. “We can’t keep running.”
“Surely Chakthi’ll not fight through the winter,” she said.
He said, “I hope not. But … When the snows come, we shall need a good place.”
“The Wintering Ground?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Chakthi likely knows of that. Or has some notion of where it is. No: we need another place this year.”
“We always go there,” she said. “Every year.”
“This,” he said, “is not a year like any other.”
Lhyn said, “No,” and touched his face. “You carry a heavy burden, my husband.”
“I’m akaman of the Commacht,” he said. “What other choice have I?” Save, he thought even as he regretted it, that I run away like Morrhyn.
“Where shall we go?” she asked.
“I was thinking,” he replied, “that there’s that valley to the south, where the river bends. Sometimes buffalo winter there.”
Lhyn nodded. “That would be a good place, I think.”
“But not straight away,” he said. “We’ll move about awhile, in case. Then when the White Grass Moon rises, we’ll go there. We should be safe there, the Maker willing.”
“The Maker willing,” Lhyn agreed, and pushed him down. “Now shall you sleep?”
Racharran said, “In a while. But not yet,” and turned toward his wife.
Lhyn said, “Your arm …”
“Is not hurting,” he lied, and moved under the furs as she opened her arms to him.
Perhaps for a little while longer he could pretend.
It was an answer Morrhyn did not properly understand, so perhaps it was not an answer at all but rather a possibility, dependent on him and those others who would heed his words. He could not be sure, and supposed that was the Maker’s way—not to define certainly, but to open gates to possible paths for those willing to follow him, to follow his way, which was the Ahsa-tye-Patiko. Morrhyn wondered how many would listen; and then how he might reach them. He thought again that he could not, that he was too weak to attempt the climb, and that even did he survive, he must still cross the wide breadth of Ket-Ta-Witko to bring the word. And Ket-Ta-Witko was surely full of enemies now, both those born of the People and those born of that other race, the Breakers.
He shuddered as he thought of what the dreaming had revealed, of what they were and did and why. It was an evil so vast, he could barely fold his mind around it, and so vile he had sooner not contemplate it but only act.
Which seemed impossible. Surely better to seek the dream again, and in it find a surer answer: he bathed his face and drank and wrapped the furs around his skinny bod
y and looked to sleep. But sleep was refused him. It would not come and so he could not dream, but only lie restless, his head all abuzz with horrid knowledge until it seemed the easier thing to rise and go out from the cave. And if he died attempting this great task set on him, then that at least should be surcease from the awful knowledge he now owned. So he rose on trembling legs and stumbled to the cave mouth and stared out on a world gone all wintry white, with little prospect in it of survival.
Icicles depended from the arch of the cave, and where the spring spilled out across the ledge before, the warm water carved a narrow channel through snow for a little way and then became iced and glittery in the sun, which shone so bright against the snow, its light was blinding, a stab of pain against his eyes. He drew back, thinking that he must build a fire and paint his face with charcoal in defense against snowblindness; and then that he had no fire, nor the wood for its making.
And then it came to him that it was entirely impossible he could have survived his sojourn in the cave without a fire, without food. He should be dead—not on the climb down, but now. Indeed, long days past, for no man could survive these heights, this cold, without food and warmth. But he was alive. He did not believe he was become a ghost, for he could feel the heat of the spring and taste its mineral-laden water, and he shivered in the chill of the ledge. He could feel the wind on his face, and when he pricked his knife to his wrist—a final test—he felt the sting and saw blood come red from the wound. Surely ghosts did not feel such pain, or bleed. So he was not a ghost, but lived—and if he could not understand how that should be, then it was surely the Maker’s doing: there existed a reason he survived.
A duty, he decided, albeit somewhat reluctantly. The Maker has kept me alive so that I might bring word to the People. Or, at least, granted me the chance to bring them word of salvation. So the rest is up to me and them. It seemed a vast and terrible duty, and likely impossible of achieving. But had he not come to this place in search of answers? And they were given him—so should he now renege that duty?
He could not: that should be a betrayal of the Maker and himself and all the People.
So he wrapped himself against the awful cold and made obeisance, and then began the impossible climb down.
23 Landfall
Had the exiles not been confined to the hold as the Pride of the Lord approached Salvation, they would have seen a coastline of humped yellow dunes sweeping away to north and south, the sand breaking against pine-clad ridges. Below decks, however, they could only wonder as the schooner heeled, Captain Bennan aligning her bows on the opening of Deliverance Bay, knowing they should soon disembark, delivered to their final destination. They would have seen the headlands that embraced the cove, affording the bay calm anchorage, and the ominous bulk of Grostheim’s wooden walls beside the mouth of the Restitution River. But all they knew was that the motion of the ship altered, and that above decks the sailors shouted cheerfully, happy to at last find safe landing. It was no easy thing to wait confined in semidarkness as their future loomed unseen, the place of their banishment no longer a distant prospect but now immediate, waiting invisible as they listened and wondered.
Peering up through the hatch, Arcole saw sails furled, and felt the schooner slow, drifting of her own impetus awhile. Then there were shouts and lines were tossed to unseen boats, the Pride of the Lord taken in tow until finally she lurched, her timbers groaning as they struck what he guessed must be a dock.
More noise then, and activity, as the ship was moored and the gangplank run out. The Pride of the Lord sighed and creaked, settling as if thankful her journey was done; and all the exiles could do was wait still.
Arcole smiled at Davyd and Flysse, essaying a confidence he did not entirely feel. “So, our future beckons, eh? It shall feel odd to tread dry land again.”
Neither answered him, but smiled nervously, their eyes shifting from him to the hatch above. At last that hatch was thrown back and they were summoned to the deck, Militiamen shouting that they form orderly there.
The sun was bright after the gloom of the hold, and the wind that blew a welcome refreshment. Arcole looked about, seeing a gentle landscape: woods bosky in the distance, a wide river that ran all silvery inland, and, beside it, Grostheim. He had not known what to expect of this wilderness settlement—not a town such as graced the Levan, but surely not this fortress. It was a construction of wood, high walls daubed with hex signs and topped with watchtowers, the mouths of cannon there, and the glint of sunlight on bayonets where soldiers patrolled the ramparts. Whatever buildings accommodated the inhabitants were hidden behind the walls, those broken by heavy gates from which a timbered road ran down to the dock. There, he saw the red coats of the regular Militia mingling with the blue of Var’s marines, a line of roughly clad men, each one wearing the brand of exile on his cheek, trudging back toward the fort. It was hard to think of that place as a town. He wondered why such fortification was necessary, if Salvation was indeed the empty land of popular supposition, but perhaps it was simply the Evanderan way.
On the dockside he saw Tomas Var and Captain Bennan conversing with two strangers. One wore the scarlet tunic of the Militia, its epaulets and braid announcing him a major, and Arcole guessed him to be the garrison commander. The other—presumably the governor—occupied a sedan chair, attended by four uniformed servants. As Arcole watched, all four glanced toward the schooner and he saw Var gesture, but what they said he could not hear, nor interpret their expressions.
Then Var returned on board to order the newcome exiles disembark. He met Arcole’s eye but said nothing, only took his place at the head of the column alongside the red-coated officer and strode briskly toward the gates.
It was, indeed, odd to tread dry land again. It was immobile under Arcole’s feet, and for a moment he staggered, become more accustomed to the constant shift of the deck. He felt Flysse clutch his arm and took her elbow, Davyd on her other side as they went unsteadily toward their fate.
Past the gates he saw walkways spanning the upper levels of the walls, connecting the watchtowers, and all around cannon and swivel guns as if Grostheim prepared for war or siege. Then there were buildings—all wood, the only stone used in construction of chimneys. He supposed timber must be more plentiful here, and thought this settlement a strange place, quite unlike any town he had seen. It was impossible to tell which structures were commercial and which domestic, for they all had the same rough-hewn uniformity, as if Grostheim were all one enormous barracks.
He turned his attention to the folk they passed. Those men indentured were easy to identify: all wore the brand upon their cheeks. Those who did not, nor were dressed in uniform, he assumed to be officials of the Autarchy or such adventurers as looked to make their fortunes colonizing this new world. The few women he saw appeared to fall into two distinct categories: there were some better dressed, who looked on the procession with a mixture of curiosity and distaste; others were poorer clad and watched incuriously, or with expressions of pity. He guessed that those were marked upon their arms, like Flysse. He thought he had much to learn of this place.
They reached a square flanked on one side by a church—that edifice recognizable—the pastor studying them dispassionately, and were herded by, into a street that ended at a large building with the look of a warehouse or storage barn. Hex signs were painted across its frontage. At the head of the column, the major flung up an arm, halting them as he climbed the three steps up to the building’s porch.
“I am Major Alyx Spelt,” he announced. Arcole wondered why the officers of the Autarchy found it always necessary to declare their names. “I command the God’s Militia in Grostheim, and for now you are in my care. This”—he gestured at the building behind him—“will be your home awhile. In time you will be assigned your owners, but until then you remain here. You will be fed and watered; there are blankets inside.”
He proceeded to outline conditions of behavior. Arcole listened with half an ear, studying the man.
When the man was done speaking, two soldiers swung the doors open. Like cattle herded to a byre, the newcomers were marched inside. It was not unlike that warehouse that had been their last resting place in Evander, as if they were not human folk but only living cargo to be stored until dispensed. The floor was hard-packed earth, its only covering the blankets strewn carelessly about. Along two walls there were windows cut, glassless and set high, allowing just enough light the occupants might see one another. At the farther end stood a wooden partition separating the main area from what were, by the sour odor, open latrines. Two water butts flanked the doors, beside them stacks of earthenware platters and crude-fashioned mugs, none too clean.
Arcole led Flysse and Davyd to a place close by the doors. By dint of the reputation earned aboard the Pride of the Lord, none argued, and they gathered blankets for their beds. Arcole wondered how cold the night might be, and how long they would remain before they were—What had Spelt said?—“assigned your owners”? He hoped Var’s promised intercession would favorably influence the governor. All well, he might find some comfortable position, learn about this place, and then … No, best not allow his hopes too free a rein. That should be too much akin to assuming a round of petanoye won on the first deal; wiser to be patient, learn all he might, and then decide how to play the hand.