by A. Sparrow
They walked side by side out to the lane.
“What you doing hanging out in this field all by yourself, anyhow?” said Misty. “Got a thing against hanging with people or something?”
“Not at all,” said Frank. “I just … didn’t want to get on Liz’s nerves. She seems anxious when I’m around.”
“You blame her?”
“No,” said Frank. “Not at all.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna make things better by hidin.’”
“Yeah, I suppose not.”
“Come on up to the house,” said Misty. “You can help me chop these roots up. You can tell her I told you.”
“Thanks,” said Frank, in a quiet voice.
***
Frank hovered in and around the cook shack, volunteering for whatever errands Misty needed done, peeling roots, fetching wood, making himself useful but unobtrusive, another cog in the farm’s machinery.
He snuck glimpses of Liz as she shuffled between the house and barns. Mostly, she ignored him, but once, out of the corner of his eye, he caught her watching him. When he turned to engage her, she blinked away, flustered, re-erecting her flinty façade.
Frank wondered whether, with patience and time, some semblance of their old relationship could be restored. Of course, he could never bring back how they were as newlyweds in Ithaca or even later in Rio Frio. That would have been impossible even if they had stayed together all those years.
But Frank suspected and hoped that some remnant of their early attraction could salvaged or rebuilt, that some dormant seed of the way they were could be germinated and cultivated like sweet pea seeds carried between worlds in the bottom of a purse.
And if he was wrong, his soul could gain enough sustenance from her proximity alone.
Ellie came bustling around the house with a stack of bowls she had washed, many bearing traces of the grit she used to scrub them. She stopped and stared down the lane.
“Will you look at that?” she said.
Frank turned. Miles was coming up the lane, the AK-74 dangling low from its shoulder strap. His body sagged. Red rimmed his eyes.
Liz came up to the porch rail.
“Thought I made Bimji get rid of that damned gun,” she said. “The Crasacs find out what that thing does, they’ll be on us like jackals on a carcass.”
“But … aren’t you curious where it came from?” said Frank. “How it got here?”
“I know damn well where it came from,” said Liz, glaring. “And I don’t give a crap how it got here.”
Tezhay returned from his impromptu riflery course, leading his little ragtag army of volunteers wielding a mix of real AKs and paintball replicas. He had thrown together an impromptu riflery course in the meadows.
Miles gaped from the porch rail. “Holy shit!” He laughed. “Where’d all those come from?”
“Same place as yours, I reckon,” said Misty. “Who’s watching the cliffs?”
“No worries,” said Miles. “There’s plenty of eyes down there. And things are quiet. Nothing in those woods but squirrels and deer.”
“Deer?” said Liz. “You saw a deer and didn’t shoot it? And now you’re expecting your supper, I bet?”
“I was saving on the ammo … in case … you know.” Miles plopped down heavily onto the edge of the porch.
Liz made a sign of the cross and rolled her eyes. She picked a small pot of boiled moss from the cinders and went around the back of the house.
Frank watched her go every step of the way. “I’m gonna … go peek in on Tom,” he said.
“Go ahead,” said Misty, winking. “I got things under control.”
***
Frank slipped through the curtain. Liz watched him enter, her eyes neutral and calm, almost disinterested, but with no trace of hostility. She sat by Tom’s bed, wafting a fan of thin wooden slats. When Frank’s gaze lingered in hers a little too long, her focus went soft and shifted to the wedge of sky visible above the curtain.
Tom was breathing rapidly, a disturbing sign. Frank went over and felt his forehead, touched a finger to his neck.
“A bit thready and quick,” said Frank.
“His fever’s up,” said Liz.
“Certainly is; has he vomited?”
“Nothing in his stomach but a spot of tea.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“He’s kept it down,” said Liz.
“That’s good.”
“How long does that stuff you gave him take to work?”
“Longer than it’s been,” said Frank. “I was gonna give him give him another dose tonight.”
Frank whisked back the moth-eaten blanket that covered Tom.
“Easy,” said Liz.
“Just checking,” Frank lifted the bandage. It still burned red, and a rosy blotch was beginning to extend from the entry wound.
“He’s got a touch of cellulitis going.”
“Which is?”
“Skin infection,” said Frank. “But I’m not too worried. I think we got the jump on it.” He fished out a wad of boiled moss, still warm, from the bottom of a little, clay pot and replaced Tom’s dressing.”
“You’re helpless here, aren’t you?” said Liz, wearing a cruel smile. “No pharmacy … no fancy equipment, no lab. Even at Rio Frio, you had those things. But it’s a whole ‘nother kind of doctoring required here, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t call it helpless,” said Frank. “There’s still plenty I can do. Maybe not … surgery.”
“Why not? Ellie does. She’s even done amputations. Snips off mangled fingers. Cleans ‘em out. Sews folks up tight and pretty.”
Frank studied Tom’s face. Ellie looked more like Liz than Tom. But perhaps Tom shared her freckles, the slight upturn of nose. But there was something else in his face he had seen before. Something familiar.
“Could he be ours, Liz?” said Frank. “Tom?”
Liz looked stunned. She stared at the floor, folding and unfolding her fan over and over, revealing the dense, cursive inscriptions inking its slats.
Frank saw how skittish she was and didn’t want to run her off. He didn’t push it. “What’s that you got there?” he said, changing the subject.
“Poems,” said Liz, her gaze fixed at her feet. “It was a gift. They’re written in Russian, and I can actually read them. Can you believe it? Me, the language dunce. Fluent in Giep’o and proficient in Russian.”
Frank’s eyes went wide and he sat upright, feeling around for the slab caught between the seams of his jacket. It had bounced on his hip ever since he left Raacevo—the stack of cardboard-thin wooden shingles he had rescued from destruction in Sibara’s hearth. The ribbon had loosened, allowing them to fan out like a deck of cards.
“Here,” said Frank, stretching to hand them to Liz.
She looked at him as if he had just pulled a rabbit out of his ass. “Where did you get these?”
“Raacevo. Some guy named Kovalev.”
“Gennadi,” said Liz. “He wrote the poems that are written on my fan. But … I heard they took him away ... to Venen.”
“They did,” said Frank. “But he left these behind. Just promise you won’t burn them.”
“Burn them? Are you nuts?” She undid the ribbon and shuffled through the stack. “These … are precious.” She clutched them to her chest. “Thank you.”
Chapter 25: Moving Out
Raindrops pitter-pattered on the roof of the car, waking Ara from a brief nap. The sun emerged from a passing shower, its radiance gilding a patchwork of dark clouds rebuilding.
Eyes bleary, she reached for Canu in the driver’s seat, her hand patting instead a clump of baby mushrooms and wild gooseberries he had left on the seat for her. She nibbled at a few and tucked the rest into her satchel.
She got out and looked around for him, coming upon Pari under a willow with Feril’s healers, splinting the ankle of a young man with a blood-smeared face.
“The rescue party just returned,” said Pari
. “He’s the last one. They found him in the ravine, hiding behind a boulder.”
“How many did we lose?” said Ara.
“Seventeen, dead or missing,” said Pari. “The Nalkies lost three.”
Ara’s eyes scanned the array of pierced and broken bodies lining the track.
“How many fit to fight?”
Pari shrugged. “Ninety … or so, I suppose. Not counting Igwa’s.”
Vul and Feril came walking down the track briskly, Canu trailing behind them.
“Igwa’s patrol just returned,” said Vul. “They made contact with a party of Crasac scouts testing our flank.”
“They’ll be attacking sooner than later, if we stay put,” said Ara. “We’d better get moving. The injured, are they fit to travel?”
“Fit as we could make them,” said Pari. “We’ve made a few litters for those who need carrying.”
“Canu says you’re leaving us,” said Feril.
Ara took a breath. “We need to contact the camp.”
“Why not send a runner?”
“No. It has to be me,” said Ara. “Commander Ingar might need encouragement to mobilize.”
“Makes sense,” said Feril. “We left sixteen behind for sick call and camp duty. It would be nice to have them back.”
Ara smiled weakly and nodded. She didn’t dare tell him that his detached fighters had likely been absorbed into other companies under the assumption that Feril’s group had been lost or destroyed.
“Don’t engage the enemy if at all possible,” she said. “I’ll return as soon as I can.”
Canu hovered at the back of the group, his eyes avoiding Ara’s.
“At least let me put together an escort for you,” said Feril.
“No need,” said Ara. “I’ll move swifter and stealthier on my own,” said Ara, her eyes glancing quickly off Canu’s as she slipped between the trees lining the track.
***
Unable to find as much as a game path that didn’t peter out after a few steps, Ara made slow progress. She gingerly forded a rain-swollen creek, fought her way through a shrub-choked hollow, pushed up a hillside through densely packed conifers, snapping through tangles of dead branches.
With relief she emerged, sweaty and panting, onto a sparsely-treed hilltop. Hut-sized blocks of granite studding the glade, each like an island clothed in moss and shrub and dwarf conifers. A pleasant jolt of recognition struck her. The stones were old friends, marking the outer limits of routine patrols around the camps’ perimeter. On rainy patrols, she had sometimes taken cover under the overhangs of these pocket castles.
Ara located her favorite ‘island,’ an erratic as large as a Venep’o war wagon, its central dimple bearing a rain pool fringed with tall grasses and a few small trees, the perfect perch for a scout.
She found her secret staircase, knobs of smoky quartz, and hauled herself up, settling into her favorite spot. Not a leaf was shredded, not a grass blade bent. None had visited the boulder top since her last stay in the middle of the dry season.
She bent her head and drank from a rain pool pocking the deep end of the dimple, ignoring the wiggling larvae that fled from her lips.
Her stomach rumbled, remembering meals taken on patrol. She wondered how well they ate in the marsh camps these days. Not any better than before, she imagined, but at least they maintained a supply line to Ubabaor, which allowed the import of treats otherwise unavailable in Gi, like pepper nuts and brittle fish.
She rolled onto her back and shut her eyes, but hard as she tried, she could not force herself to relax. The seventeen dead or missing fighters weighed heavily on her conscience. The failed raid had been her idea; her initiative had led them up that mountain to their end. Without her, Feril’s fighters would likely be snug in their bunkers right now.
She sat upright, thinking of the hordes of Cuasars that might be thundering down the road from Raacevo, bearing down on her friends. Their fate could be tethered to her success in the marsh camps. She slid off the boulder and resumed her trek.
Familiar or not, the rumpled and repetitive terrain made it easy to lose one’s way. Thankfully, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds often enough for Ara to keep her bearing. She kept to a westward vector that should intersect the rough track leading to the marshes, where they had originally met up and absconded with Feril’s force.
Time after time, false paths fooled her: strips of forest logged long ago, abandoned trails. The sun began to dip. Ara’s heart pounded with sickly uncertainty. She pressed on. And then: the sound of an axe striking wood.
She trotted towards the source, abandoning all caution.
“Halt!” Shrill voices challenged her.
Ara looked about. These sentries were well hidden.
“State your name and purpose!”
Ara whistled the old pass code and hoped it was recognized. No trace of the bulwarks lay within view. These new defenders, sent to fill the vacuum left by Feril and his fighters, apparently maintained their perimeter deep and tight.
Two sentries emerged disguised in bits of forest, weapons drawn, drawing beads on her torso. “Name and purpose!”
“Arahelios. Second Expeditionary. Returning from Ur.”
“She’s cadre,” snapped one of the sentries, and they relaxed their weapons.
“I’m just passing through,” said Ara. “I bear a message for Commander Ingar.”
“All who pass must be vetted through Captain Dalii. Ingar’s orders.”
“Understood,” said Ara.
The sentry led Ara up and over the rise, onto the main track. They had been busy removing trees to clear a killing zone and extending the bulwarks on both flanks.
A whistle brought Captain Dalii out of the command bunker that had been Feril’s. Ara recognized her. Dalii had attended one of Ara’s Giep’o language tutorials in camp. Dalii’s militia was one of the few units deriving from Piliar, the island province least affected by the Venep’o invasion, and thus still had a home province to defend, unlike Suul.
Dalii bumped Ara’s shoulder and pulled her in for a hug. Dalii peered down the track. “Is Commander Baren with you?”
“I come alone,” said Ara.
“What happened?” said Dalii.
“We had … complications. I’m sorry, it’s confidential,” said Ara. “For Ingar’s ears only.”
“Understood,” said Dalii, her face stiffening. “I didn’t mean to pry, but these are strange days. The unit that defended this post before us, vanished. No evidence of a struggle. Just took their things and left, it seems.”
Ara gazed through the trees up at the mountain bearing the heliograph station. “Have you noticed … the Mercomar?”
“That it stays dark?” said Dalii. “Yet another strangeness.”
“How is the camp reacting?”
Dalii shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” she said. “We’ve received no runners.”
“I’m afraid I can’t linger,” said Ara. “I need to see Commander Ingar.”
“Do you require an escort?”
“I know the way,” said Ara. “Have the pass codes changed?”
“Not yet,” said Dalii. “But they will soon.”
Ara patted Dalii’s shoulder and set off past the bulwarks. The track steadily descended into the great bowl that held the marshes. Scores of uprooted trees blocked the path, felled on purpose to thwart Cuasars.
Cellar holes marked the former homesteads of the Giep’o who had tried to give this land a go. From the Giep’o perspective this land was uninhabitable: too wet to till except in drought, soil so poor it required two seasons fallow for every season planted. Even the grazing was poor: indigestible grass with saw-toothed, silica-studded blades. Suited only for hunting, that resource had been depleted by the thousands of militia encamped in the wastes.
Tree ferns infiltrated the trees, fronds arching over the track to form green tunnels. Rivulets popped out of the duff, trickled over the surface and disappeared into h
oles and crevices. Trees tippy-toed on buttressed roots.
Ara smelled the marshes before she saw them—a mix of peat smoke and decay. Dead wood became sparser. Signs of foot traffic increased: scuffed leaf litter, trampled grass, divots in the dirt. The understory released its grip.
Ara felt eyes upon her. She whistled the pass code.
Chapter 26: The Crossroads
His mood as grey as the burgeoning clouds, Canu lifted the rear hatch of the red car and lowered the seats. Pari and her fellow healers hefted three of the more severely wounded patients, one at a time, into the bay, cushioning them with wadded clothing and bunches of grass.
Canu went forward and slumped into the driver’s seat. The sight of Ara glancing back before she disappeared into the trees hung in his mind. The image joined a gallery of similar indelible moments: his brother’s hand grasping at air as a river swept him away; the last time he ever saw his parents, standing together under a lintel, days before Crasac shock troops over-ran their town.
The bulk of Feril’s force had already advanced down the goat track. Feril lingered behind with a small squad to protect the healers as they dealt with a difficult case – a woman with a mangled leg, whose bleeding resisted all stanching.
Pari came up and hopped into the seat beside Canu, slamming the door.
“Easy,” said Canu.
“Don’t worry, your precious isn’t made of eggshells.” Pari scrunched her eyes at him. “Just making sure it closes.”
Fighters ran past. Feril came to the window.
“Better get moving. We have Crasacs coming up the back of the ridge.”
“Where are we going?” said Canu.
“Just follow us. You’ll see,” said Feril, running off.
“I heard we’re going to the crossroads,” said Pari. “To the heights across the river.”
“Makes sense,” said Canu. “Good place to watch the road and defend.”
“Defend?” said Pari, shuddering. “I think I’ve had my fill of fighting.”
“It’s not like we’re not looking for a fight,” said Canu. “But if we’re going to hide somewhere, it should be defensible, no?”
Pari looked straight ahead. “Seor would never have let us take part in such a travesty. Charging up a bloody mountain with no idea what’s up there and no idea what to do once we got there?”