by A. Sparrow
***
Outside the shed, Miles heard digging and scraping within. Clods of earth and goat dung came rolling beneath the door.
“Knock, knock?” he said.
The digging ceased. “Miles? You alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on in, but shut the door behind you.”
Miles ducked inside. Tom had dug a hole in the corner of the shed under what had been a manure pile.
Miles swung his pack over one shoulder. He brushed some stray bits of dirt from his bedding. “Do I dare ask what you’re digging up?”
Tom extricated a wooden crate, long enough but too narrow to be a child’s coffin.
“Don’t tell my mom I have this,” said Tom.
He pried open the lid and lifted out a clanking canvas-wrapped bundle. Little fingers of brass tinkled out from a rip in the oiled canvas.
“Bullets?” said Miles.
“From your world,” said Tom. “You ever use one of these?” He un-wrapped the bundle to reveal a battered and dingy assault rifle.
“Never,” said Miles. Guns had always frightened him.
Tom loaded the magazine. It looked to Miles like he knew what he was doing.
Whistles and voices hailed from the cliffs. Tom went to the door, taking care not to show the weapon.
“Villagers,” said Tom.
Miles stepped around him, wary of the loaded rifle. A line of people were coming up the lane. Several bore a man on a makeshift litter. Others assisted a woman whose was wrapped in bloodstained rags.
Ellie came running by. “Tom! Miles! Come help!”
Tom shoved the crate back in the hole and kicked the dirt back over it.
“I’m sticking the gun under your bed,” whispered Tom. “Don’t tell anyone.”
***
The rain picked up as the twilight deepened. Fourteen refugees now crowded the porch. Some picked at globs of leftover porridge. Others trembled too much to partake.
Ellie and Liz tended to a man laid out on the floor. Miles’ bones ached looking at him. Blood pooled beneath the man’s hip. His face seemed molded from wax. The man still breathed, but probably not for long.
Tom had taken aside four of the most able-bodied refugees. Miles gathered that he wanted them to be sentries.
“You too, Miles,” said Tom.
“What’s that?”
“You’re coming with us down to the cliffs.”
“Um, I’m probably better suited to helping out here, actually.”
“You’re coming with us,” said Tom.
Misty emerged from the main house bearing weapons: two longbows, a crossbow and a broken-tipped sword. Tom slung the crossbow over his shoulder and started off.
“Come!” said Tom.
“Go on,” said Misty. “Liz and Ellie have things under control here. I’ll join y’all in a bit.”
Reluctantly, Miles followed the ragtag patrol out into the rain. The boy who had led Miles to Lizbet’s farm smiled and nodded at him.
Liz came to the rail. “Whatever you do, Tom, don’t provoke them. They’ll leave us alone if we mind our business. Don’t give them reason to come up here.”
“They’ve already got fourteen reasons to come after us,” said Tom, without looking back. When they reached the goat shed, Tom handed his crossbow to Miles, along with a fistful of stubby looking arrows.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” said Miles.
“It’s already loaded with two shots,” said Tom. “The forward trigger releases the first bolt. The back trigger for the second.”
“Let one of these folks have it,” said Miles. “I’ve never handled one of these.”
Tom ignored him. “To reload, just slide a bolt into the slot and pull back the lever on the bottom.” He demonstrated how to hold it, placing Miles’ left hand on a forward grip of oiled and polished wood.
“Who are we shooting at?” said Miles, hyperventilating.
“Nobody, I hope,” said Tom.
He dashed into the shed and emerged with the assault rifle, swaddling rags over it to keep the rain off.
The rest of the group was already waiting down at the cliff edge. Another small group of stragglers made their way over the rim in the fading light. The bony old man Miles had met on his first day held up both palms in greeting as he passed Miles and headed on to the main house.
Tom spoke to his volunteers and had them disperse along the cliff top. He turned to Miles.
“You and me are going down the cliffs,” he said.
“But it’s getting dark,” said Miles. His heart pattered like a small bird’s.
“Don’t worry,” said Tom. “There’s cover. We’ll see them before they see us.”
They started down the cleft. Miles hung back, a few steps behind Tom, breathing like a marathoner.
A cry arose from the trees below. Two figures ran across the open space below the cliffs, hoof beats pounding after them. Something snapped. One of the figures collapsed in the gravel. The other paused. Another crack and the second fell.
“Get down!” said Tom.
They ducked below an upended slab.
A horseman trotted out of the trees and looked over the fallen pair, writhing and moaning in the scree. Tom ripped the rags off his rifle and flipped a lever above the trigger. He raised the rifle to his cheek.
The rider squinted up at the cliff top, signaled for others in the trees behind him to stay back. He looked bulky in his saddle, wearing winged and flanged armor that made him look like an exotic insect.
“Cuerti!” hissed Tom. He pulled the trigger. It clicked, but failed to fire.
The rider bellowed to his companions and wheeled about, heading back for the trees.
“Damn, I forgot to load the chamber,” said Tom. He jerked back another lever.
But the riders were gone. One victim whimpered. The other lay silent and still.
Chapter 14: Defense
Hoof beats receded down the forest path. Tom shouted in Giep’o up to the cliff top. Rescuers scrambled down the switchback to reach the fallen.
“Help me cover them,” said Tom, panning the rag-swaddled rifle across the trees bounding the clearing below. Miles lifted his crossbow, hands shaking, keeping his fingers well away from any triggers lest he send a bolt into an innocent by accident.
The rescuers did not linger. They retrieved the two victims and rushed back up the ramp. Miles saw no hope for the villagers dangling limp in their arms. Shafts with dark fletching protruded from their backs.
The forest was still but for the spatter of rain on leaf and the swaying of trees in the wind. The night thickened and consumed all detail and shadow on the forest floor. Miles grew antsy.
“It’s getting dark,” he said. “Maybe we should go back.”
“No,” said Tom.
“But … wouldn’t it be better to be up there with the others?”
“The cliffs block our view,” said Tom. “This is the place to be. It’s protected, and we have a clear shot at all who approach.”
“But I can’t see a damn thing,” Miles said, squinting into the darkness.
“Don’t need to,” said Tom. “We’ll hear their horses ... their armor.”
Miles listened carefully to the night. For a long while, he heard nothing but frogs and the hiss of rain falling through the canopy. Rain trickled down his face. He was wet and tired and miserable.
Voices in the trees stirred him back alert. His heart thudded back into full panic mode. But it was just another wave of refugees, shouting and whistling as they approached the cliffs as if they expected them to be defended. Miles counted at least a dozen people file past, along with their donkeys and dogs.
“These folks are from Xama,” said Tom. “Seems like the Venep’o sacked every village in the valley.”
“Those soldiers,” said Miles, “They coming back?”
“Oh, yeah,” said Tom. “They’ll be back.”
Tom’s ominous
tone sent Miles’ heart rate spiking yet again, but as the minutes passed, under the mesmerizing spell of the rain, Miles’ adrenalin was no match for his fatigue. His head drooped against his chest. He nodded off, to be awakened by his own snore, and drifted off again, to be startled by the crossbow knocking against a ledge.
“Go on back then, if you’re so pooped,” said Tom.
“’S’alright,” said Miles, drowsily. “I can … stay.”
“You’re no use to me snoozing,” said Tom. “Go on up and get some rest.”
Tom called up to the cliff top. Someone answered back tersely in Giep’o.
“Go on,” said Tom. “Tell mom, not to worry. We’ve got things under control.”
Miles hauled himself to his feet and plodded up the slant, sliding one palm against the cliff wall to keep himself from stepping off the sheer drop to his right. Wind blasted him when he reached the top, prompting spasms of shivers.
A figure stepped out from one of the makeshift rain shelters.
“Tom?” she said.
“No. It’s Miles.”
“Out for a stroll?” said Misty.
“Tom sent me up to get some sleep,” said Miles.
“Sleep?” said Misty. “Now? How is that possible?”
“It’s been a long day,” said Miles.
“Well … if you’re able to … the more power to you,” said Misty. “Get it while you can, I guess.” She put her hand on the crossbow. “I’ll take this, if you don’t mind.”
“Be my guest,” said Miles, handing over the weapon. “Are you all planning to stay out here all night?”
“I don’t know,” said Misty. “I just came to keep an eye on Tom for Liz. If things stay calm, maybe I can get him to come back up. I would think the dogs would suffice to warn us if the Cuasars come back. They’re pretty riled up.”
Miles lowered his voice. “Did you know he’s got a gun?”
“He has a what?”
“A gun.”
“Where did he get a gun?”
“I don’t know. Raacevo?” said Miles.
“Fat chance of that,” said Misty.
“Well … I’m gonna go get out of this rain before I drown. Take care,” said Miles, trudging on towards the flicker of light up the lane.
“Sweet dreams,” said Misty.
The rain fell in a fine and steady spray as Miles splashed up the lane. Puddles reflected the faint glimmer of a fire in the cook shack. Shadows delineated where the terraces ended and the outbuildings began. Miles pushed open the door of the goat shed to find the room reverberant with whispers and murmurs and sobs. Dark figures huddled on his bed and there seemed to be someone sprawled on the floor where Tom had done his digging. Someone greeted him in a language he couldn’t understand.
Miles sighed and pulled the door closed.
He went on up to the main house. The porch, faintly illuminated by a single oil lamp, was crowded with more refugees. People sprawled over every flat area of the porch, on the table, under the table. Few slept. Some rocked and moaned as others tried to console them.
Miles stood awkwardly by the rail, seeking familiar faces, finding none. The fire in the cook shack flared. He felt drawn to it like a moth. He stepped off the porch and crossed through mud puddles, finding Liz crouched inside, stoking the fire with a stave.
“Well, if it isn’t Mr. Miles,” she said, glancing. “How goes things on the Maginot line?”
“Quiet … for now,” said Miles.
Miles slumped onto a split log bench. Liz had gotten the fire good and crackling. He dragged the bench closer. His dripping clothes made puddles in the packed clay.
Liz held her palms up to the fire and rubbed them. She watched Miles over her shoulder. “You look dazed, my boy,” said Liz. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m a little freaked right now,” said Miles. “I watched two people die.”
“Folks from Xama have been telling some horrific stories,” said Liz. “They’re lucky as many got away that did. But I wouldn’t worry. This will all blow over. Always does. From time to time, the Cuasars come out of their garrison to quell the Nalkies. Just our bad luck they struck our neck of the woods this time around.”
“Cuasars?” said Miles. “Tom called them Cuerti.”
“Can’t have been Cuerti,” said Liz, scoffing. “That’s the Alar’s personal guard. Tom must have gotten a little over-excited.”
“You don’t think they’re gonna come after us?” said Miles.
“No,” said Liz, dragging a log into the embers. “They’re probably already on their way back to their barracks. Cuasars have never bothered this farm. Their scouts pass through. We feed them well. We’ve given them no reason to trouble us.”
“But why … those villages?”
“For show,” said Liz. “To remind the Nalkies who’s boss.”
Miles wanted to feel reassured, but Liz’s assessment of the situation did not harmonize with the way those two farmers were chased down and exterminated. That act had been more than bluster.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” said Liz. “You look ill.”
“Just tired,” said Miles. “And someone’s sleeping in my bed.”
“Hah, join the club,” said Liz. “I have an entire family sleeping in mine.”
Miles pulled off his shirt and wrung it out. The water sizzled on the hot stones surrounding the hearth. His shirt began to steam.
The fire’s warmth magnified Miles’ drowsiness. He slumped lower on the bench. Nerves alone kept him conscious.
“You’re zonked,” said Liz. “No one’s in Tom’s little shack out back. Why don’t you grab it while you can? I thought about sneaking back there myself, but there’s no way I can sleep, with all that’s going on.” She winced as she straightened up out of her crouch.
The heat felt wonderful penetrating Miles’ aching flesh. He was in no hurry to head back into the dampness, despite the promise of a soft bed.
“Thanks,” he said. “But I think I’ll hang here … dry out some more.”
He lay down on the bench, facing the flames. Fire glow danced through his closed eyelids. He drifted off, disturbed only by a pillow of folded cloth inserted gently beneath his head.
***
The fire had dwindled back to feeble embers when Miles awoke. He found himself alone in the cook shack with the rain crashing down, runoff curtaining the periphery of the shelter, spattering the interior. The fronts of his clothes were crisp and dry, but his backside remained clammy.
Miles tossed in a few splits with light tinder to revive the fire. He got off the bench and sat on the hearth with his back to the building flames. The stones still retained some of their warmth.
Tom darted over from behind the main house bearing a bundle of rags.
“You’re awake!” he said. “Good. We need you back at the cliffs. They spotted Crasacs spotted on the river road.”
“That’s nice,” said Miles. “What the fuck’s a Crasac?”
“Foot soldiers,” said Tom. “Come on. We need everybody we can get. Mom’s been telling the villagers to ignore me.”
“I don’t blame her … or them,” said Miles. “It’s raining awfully hard.”
“You don’t understand,” said Tom. “If they sack the farm they’ll kill you, too.”
“But your mom says—“
“She’s wrong,” said Tom. “She doesn’t know what Bimji was up to in Raacevo. I think this is all because of him.”
Miles’ stomach churned. He didn’t know how much of it was hunger, how much was fear.
“I’m not cut out for this Tom,” said Miles.
“Please!” said Tom. “If they see us make a stand, maybe they’ll just go away. And if they don’t … well, I have that gun.”
Miles’ jitters returned full-blown, destroying the peaceful aura conferred by his nap. His instincts made him want to side with Liz. But Tom had an intensity and righteousness in his eyes that was difficult to ignore. And
he did have that gun.
Miles stretched and groaned. Every muscle ached, even his pinkies. He peeked into a cauldron that had been pulled aside out of the ashes. A crust of porridge lined the bottom, cracked a chunk off and took a bite.
“This stuff ain’t bad like this.” He broke off a few more chunks and stuffed them in his pocket.
“You coming?” said Tom.
“Sure,” said Miles, half-heartedly.
Tom shoved a mass of greasy canvas into his arms.
“What’s this for?” said Miles.
“Oil cloth,” said Tom. “To keep the rain off. Come on. We need to get back down there before full daylight.”
Miles tossed the oil cloth over his head, took a deep breath and followed Tom out into the rain. They ducked into a barn. Three dead villagers were arrayed neatly on the clay floor, with several of their kin keeping watch over them. Tom retrieved his rifle from an old man wearing a veil.
They hopped rivulets and dashed past the terraces to the top of the cliffs, where more tepee-like shelters had sprouted since the night before. Tom ducked his head into one near the head of the ramp.
“Any action?” said Tom.
“Nah, it’s been quiet,” said Ellie, emerging from the shelter looking groggy.
Tom’s sister emerged from the shelter looking groggy.
“Give Miles the crossbow. You go on home,” said Tom.
“What’s that you have there?” said Ellie.
Tom turned to put his body between Ellie and the rifle.
“Never mind,” said Tom. “You go on back to the house.”
***
A keen-eyed woman wielding a longbow nearly as tall as her stood watch in the stone cleft at the switchback. Miles spoke to her briefly, and sent her back up to the cliff top.
Films of water sheathed the cliff face. The path collected trickles and funneled the runoff along a channel cut into the stone. The waterfall thundered unseen in its notch.
Tom tucked his oil cloth amongst the collapsed ledges and vertical flakes of delaminated stone that hemmed in three sides of their nook and crossed a broken branch underneath to support a makeshift canopy. He stuffed a wad of leaves into the barrel of the rifle and propped against a slab shaped like a shark fin.
“Help me make a wall,” said Tom, stacking stones to block the opening of the nook. Miles put the crossbow down to assist, his back was still sore from hauling stone the day before. Once they had it waist high, they chinked the walls of the bunker with smaller chunks of stone, using handfuls of gritty mud as mortar.