by Alan Garner
“Go see what you can find on the dead guys,” said Logan. “There may be a knife, or something.”
“Lotta use that’ll be,” said Face.
“It’s a start.”
“We was marching degraded, remember?” said Magoo. “Hey, what was that Macey pulled on the guard?”
“Not!” said Macey. He sat by a tree. Sweat from his hand had soaked the rags. The hardness wrapped in tatters hung at his shoulder, beneath his cloak. The weight of it was heavy for the first time, heavier than anything ever.
“Aw, come on, goofball.”
“He said no.” Logan watched the men.
“What’ll we do?” said Face.
“We’ll soldier,” said Logan. “We’re the Ninth.”
“There ain’t no Ninth,” said Face. “Why are you carrying on like we wasn’t busted?”
“I don’t give a toss what some minging stonemason does because he thinks he can run an army. Let him build his goddam wall, and the rest of the crap, but we’re still the Ninth, not brickies. Right?”
They looked at each other, and at the sanctuary.
“Yeh.”
“Anybody claim rank over me?” said Logan. “Right. We’re back on duty. Military discipline will apply. Face, Buzzard, check out this place. You still waiting?” he said to Magoo.
Macey was inert, wrapped in his cloak. “My mates,” he said.
Logan tethered the mule. “That was pretty smart, kid. I thought you’d flipped.”
Macey looked up at him. He seemed to be terrified.
“We’d all’ve gone if you hadn’t used it,” said Logan.
“You didn’t see.”
“I saw enough.”
“You mustn’t see!”
“You used the stone axe from way back.”
“No. They’re never used.”
Logan held out his hand. “I’d sure appreciate it—”
“No! But I had to. You’re my mates. Not for me. My mates.”
“Yeh, we’re your mates. It was OK. Quit worrying.”
“Brilliant mates. All brilliant mates.”
“You were right, kid. I saw nothing.”
“I saw.”
“Saw what?”
“Blue. Silver. And red.”
“What’s with this blue and silver? You ever had it before?”
“When I was a kid. Pain. But then it was— Hell, there ain’t words.”
“Like you flipped?”
“But I didn’t go,” said Macey. “Blue and silver—makes me so chickenshit I can’t remember whatall next. It was changing. But when—that guy—killed him hereabouts— when I killed him—on the road—blue and silver—I freaked—but I could see him, what I did—but there was two hands—pressing at me—a long way off against my eyes—and then near—and then noplace—big as all there is. Sir, I don’t think I’m too good for this unit any more.”
Magoo appeared among the trees. “Nothing,” he said. “And there’s no guards.”
“Scived back to Chester,” said Logan. “I’d like to see their report!”
“I don’t figure they’ll be making none. Sir.”
“Why?”
Magoo smiled, and went back towards the road. Logan followed.
“They’ve taken the bodies.”
“Reckon?” said Magoo.
They stood by the road. It was empty and straight, the cleared ground on either side hid no one.
On the road, blood still moved. It lay in patches for a hundred metres. The guards had tried to run. There was nothing left.
“Did you hear?” said Logan.
“No.”
“What, then?”
“We’re past Crewe. Like you said.”
“Back on sanctuary. Quick.”
Buzzard was hurrying to meet them as they crossed the ditch. “Sir! Face and me: we’ve found the shrine. It don’t look healthy.”
“Show,” said Logan.
They went into the birch wood. Every tree had rags tied to it: in a clearing they came to a spring, and around it were offerings of human heads.
“What tribe?” said Logan.
“Cats.”
“But the trees are Cat totems.”
“Look at the spring, sir.”
The water emerged from above a line of clay, but recently, so recently that the earth had not crumbled, the bank had been cut back to hold a stone through which the water ran, and the front of the stone was carved as a snake, open-mouthed.
“How do you read?” said Logan.
“Not more than a week old,” said Magoo, turning a head between his hands. “The stone’s new.”
“Reconsecration,” said Buzzard. “By the Mothers. They’re moving south.”
“Stand to. All arms,” said Logan. “At the double here.”
“Yessir.”
They brought Macey and the pack mule.
“Alternative analysis?” said Logan.
“None, sir,” said Buzzard. “This is a Mothers snake, and those heads are Cats.”
“Will they be near?”
“Unlikely,” said Face. “They’re scared of their own sanctuaries. They’ll come if they’ve any Cats to sacrifice.”
“You and Magoo stand sentry,” said Logan, “but listen. All of you get this, and get it good. The guards have been taken out, maybe not by Cats. The Mothers have come south. They’ll raid the Cats wherever they find them, and both sides will whip our ass if we let them. Solutions.”
“The usual,” said Face. “Divide and rule. Hit the infrastructure.”
“Correct. All right? We retreat until we’re clear of the Mothers, then we go tribal.”
“What about you, sir?” said Buzzard.
“I can pass. I know enough to get by, but when things stabilise here, we’ll have to settle for one dialect.”
“There’s only one,” said Magoo, and laughed. “Who’d’ve thought the Ninth would end up as frigging Mothers!”
“We’re still the Ninth,” said Logan. “But we’re fighting a different war.” He pulled out the snake from the spring mouth and broke it. He left the pieces as they lay. “Bury the heads. Then move. Single file. South-east. Kill on sight.”
“What with?” said Buzzard.
“Anything. We’re fighting a different war. You’ve one chance, if you’re smart, and there’s one way to know you won’t be double-crossed. That applies at all times.”
“All mates: all we’ve got,” said Macey. “All we need.”
“What was it you pulled on the guard?” said Magoo. “I’ve marched with you five years and never saw. What was it?”
“No,” said Macey, hugging himself.
“Aw, don’t be like that. We’re your mates, goofball.” He tried to wrestle with him.
Logan’s boot came down on Magoo’s wrist. “I’ll kill any man who touches Macey’s gear. No questions. A military order. Acknowledge.”
“Affirmative,” said the Ninth.
They withdrew slowly, hiding their tracks. Buzzard led, Macey held the mule and Logan covered the rear. They swung into deep forest away from the road. It was quiet in the forest, as if sanctuary moved with them.
They halted at the lip of a steep river valley. “The Dane,” said Buzzard. “It’s fordable.”
Face climbed a tree. “We’re on course,” he said when he came down. “Sanctuary bearing three-five-zero, and a mountain, bearing one-three-zero, estimated eleven clicks. But we’ll need to swing south to avoid towns. They’ll be full of Cats wanting protection right now, so we’d better watch out when we cross the Sandbach road. There’ll be heavy traffic.”
“Mountain status,” said Logan.
“Isolated peak,” said Buzzard. “Mow Cop. Ridge running north. Gap near Bosley, where Cats have federal permission to fortify a camp. Suggest ideal, but cold, sir.”
“We’d see them coming.”
“Militarily strong, good water, but severe exposure.”
“Right,” said Logan. “Maintain present
bearing. Cross Sandbach road, then swing for Mow Cop. And I want me a Cat village before dark.”
“We could reach Mow Cop in daylight, sir.”
“It’s not that easy.”
“How big a village, sir?”
“Big enough to equip us, not too big to take.”
They crossed all tracks, followed none.
“Mow Cop bearing eight-zero,” said Face, “ten clicks. And I smelt smoke: wind one-seven-zero.”
“Report,” Logan said to Buzzard.
Buzzard went up the tree. “Domestic,” he said.
“Not a raid?”
“Negative.”
“Distance?”
“Estimated three clicks.”
“Tether and blindfold the mule,” Logan said to Macey. “Magoo, Face, go see that village. Full logistics and report back before dusk.”
“Yessir.”
“You all right, kid?” said Logan.
“I guess so.”
“We’ll be depending on you. Your mates. You won’t chicken?”
“I hope not, sir.”
“Kip down: Buzzard and I’ll stand to.”
“What do you plan?” said Buzzard.
“I don’t know yet,” said Logan.
“Why smash that snake? Sure, they were the Mothers, but I’ve never known you violate gods. Even Magoo was shook up. Hit the infrastructure, yeh, but in the Ninth we always said Logan—”
“In the Ninth we still say.”
“Sir?”
“We still say, we still think, we still do. The Ninth functions.”
“Yessir.”
“Sound more convinced.”
“I’d just like to report,” said Buzzard, “that if we’re the Ninth, we’re understrength.”
“I can’t sleep, sir,” said Macey.
“Lie quiet: rest.”
“What are you figuring on?” said Buzzard.
“I don’t know yet,” said Logan.
Face and Magoo returned.
“Small settlement,” said Face. “I’ve seen it before. Called Barthomley. Cats. One roundhut: two, three others: estimated twenty men plus families. Situated on low mound, stream to the north at foot called Wulvarn. One gate, shut, guarded: simple ditch and stockade. Four sentries in all. Ditch filled with green thorns.”
“Attitude,” said Logan.
“Defensive only.”
“Trained?”
“Negative.”
“We can take ’em,” said Magoo. “If we throw the pack tent across the thorns, the stockade’s only three metres.”
“Noted,” said Logan.
They led the mule to within half a kilometre of the settlement, then Logan ordered a halt. It was night and a clear moon.
“Buzzard, I want you to go in there and bring back one sword.”
“You kidding?” said Buzzard.
“Get.”
Buzzard hesitated.
“Make with that sword,” said Logan.
He was away an hour. The blade was long.
“You can use this?” Logan said to Macey.
“Guess I can.”
“Sir,” said Buzzard, “them Cats is easy. They’re farmers. Who needs Macey? Shout ‘Mothers’ over the fence and they’ll die.”
“Good,” said Logan. “Now we’re going to take out this village with tribal weapons, OK? I figure for the Ninth to survive it must disappear. They won’t put this one down to us. We maximise harassment and interdiction. OK?”
Magoo grinned. “Outta sight!”
“Here’s how it is,” said Logan. “Macey flips. We go in across the tent and pull it after us. When we hit their perimeter, Macey should kill four, five just like that. We grab assets, then eliminate. Result, a raid put down to the Mothers, and we have the gear to go tribal. As the Ninth, there will be no abort; but if we louse it up, survivors cut ass out on their own. Questions?”
“We hit this village,” said Buzzard.
“Correct.”
“And they don’t know it’s us.”
“They know,” said Logan. “But that’s all.”
“Children. Women.”
“Wise up,” said Magoo.
“I told you,” said Logan, “we’re fighting a different war.”
“I can’t do that cold,” said Buzzard.
“You won’t be cold,” said Magoo.
Macey could hardly walk. Logan and Face took an elbow each to steady his trembling. Logan held the sword.
“You’ll be OK soon, kid. This is the worst. You’re with your mates.”
The village was only an enclosure on a long, low mound above a stream.
“How’s that water?” said Logan.
“Clear,” said Face. “Bog the other side. I suggest we hit near the gate.”
“Agreed,” said Logan, and settled Macey on the ground, with the sword hilt between his hands, like a child with an unknown toy.
“Why don’t we try it easy, first?” said Buzzard. “Like ask them to let us in.”
“You crazy?” said Magoo.
“No, but Macey is. And when he turns on, he ain’t exactly quiet, neither.”
“Right,” said Magoo.
“Surprise is all we got,” said Face.
“They don’t know that,” said Logan.
“I’ve been in,” said Buzzard. “They don’t want trouble, but they’re sure scared.”
“And they don’t come more dangerous than then,” said Face.
“Go talk to them,” Logan ordered Buzzard. “Say we’re a patrol and we’ve a wounded man. That’ll cover Macey. But don’t let them open the gate. Say there’s Mothers about.”
“You may not be fooling,” said Magoo.
“Go with him,” said Logan, “and as soon as Macey’s across them thorns, you and Buzzard drag the tent over. It’s deployed?”
“Yessir.”
They went through the forest towards the camp.
Face twisted a harness round Macey’s shoulders, holding him upright against a tree. Logan worked the leather down to Macey’s elbows. “Keep close behind that trunk,” he said.
“You bet,” said Face.
“What you want for light, kid?” said Logan. “There’s a moon.”
“No!” Macey struggled.
“Steady,” said Logan. “Not yet. We gotta have light. Stars OK?”
“Yes.”
“Well, look there, kid. If that ain’t old Orion up in the sky. Can you see his belt? Three bright stars. Which of those pretty little stars are you going to be?”
Voices, not loud, came from the camp.
“Take no notice,” said Logan. “You choose yourself a pretty twinkling star on Orion’s belt. OK?”
“OK.”
“Which one?”
“—Mintaka.”
“Mintaka. Right. Now you keep watching old Mintaka, and see that son of a bitch don’t run away.”
Logan took out of his cloak a small wheel from a horse trapping. It was held between two prongs like the rowel of a spur.
“You keep looking at Mintaka: and catch hold of that sword now.”
Face gripped the harness and pressed his head and body against the opposite side of the tree. Logan spun the wheel, flickering starlight. He stroked the rim with an accustomed measure, evenly turning the spokes, their invisible shadows glimmering Macey’s eye.
The voices at the camp argued, but there was no alarm.
“Go, Macey. Mintaka, baby. Go, kid.”
Macey shook.
“Go, baby, go.” The hand caressed, the wheel spun. “Go, baby.”
Face frowned at Logan, puzzled.
“Mintaka. Mintaka. Stay loose, kid. You gotta go.”
Macey’s eye was open. Logan stopped speaking. The sound between them was the thin ring of the wheel.
“Mintaka, baby.”
Macey sagged in his harness, his head drooped.
“I can’t make it.” He was crying. “I can’t flip.”
“Get down with the
others,” Logan said to Face. “Be ready.”
“But he’s—”
“Get down.” Logan twisted the harness into his own hand, and put the wheel away. “Get down.”
“Sir, he ain’t safe for one man.”
“I’m ordering you.”
Face backed off until he was clear.
“What is it, kid? You want to try the moon?”
“The moon’s axe edge,” sobbed Macey.
“Yeh! Those are your words, kid! You’re remembering!”
“I am the one the moon’s axe spares—”
“Great! Great!”
“No, sir. I can’t flip with no axe, no smooth hard axe. Not now.”
“But it’s safe, kid. Stay loose. You’ve got the axe from way back.”
“It don’t talk to me no more.”
Logan bit on the harness, his look upon the glow of the camp. Macey’s head was young.
“You ain’t gonna flip?”
“Not really, sir.”
“OK,” said Logan. “No Ninth. No brilliant mates. Finish.”
“I ain’t brilliant now, sir. Not any more.”
“You ain’t. You ain’t brilliant, kid. You’re blue and silver.”
Macey screamed.
“Blue and silver, blue, silver.”
Macey screamed again as each word tore him. Logan felt the strength and agony in the harness.
“Go, baby, bluesilver blue silver!”
He watched the sword, ready for spasm.
“Bluesilver, bluesilver, bluesilver, red, baby!”
Macey was rigid against the tree. His arms brought the sword up in front of him, pointing at the camp.
“Yeh, that’s your bluesilver. Go take it. Take them bluesilver bastards in there!” Logan slackened the harness, whistled the warning to Magoo, Face and Buzzard. “Go take them bluesilvers!”
“Let there be no strife,” shouted Macey, “for we are brothers! The distance is gone between us!”
“Chickenshit! Where’s the big words? Come on! You’ve flipped! The big words, so’s you can go!”
“The strong bull of earth!” sang Macey. “The white bull bellows!”
“That’s it, kid!”
“I am above you!
“I am a man!
“I am the man of all gifts and all giving!
“Prepare my way for me!”
“You’re there!” Logan threw off the harness. But Macey jerked with a force that Logan had never felt in him. The sword still pointed, but the body was too rigid to move.