A Meeting At Corvallis

by S. M. Stirling

  Aylward waved back. Tamar opened the gate and brought her cart through; the red-coated, white-faced oxen were yearlings she'd hand-raised and almost as obedient as dogs, following her without needing to be led. The cart held two big plastic bins of water, a light-metal trough, a couple of bales of fodder for the oxen, and buckets of oat-mash with beans for the horses; the big beasts couldn't live on grass alone when they were doing hard graft like this.

  The men and girl occupied themselves watering and feeding the stock. When his team had their muzzles in the buckets and were eating with sloppy, slobbering enthusiasm, the humans washed up themselves and unpacked the lunch baskets: crusty rolls sliced and stuffed with ham and sharp-tasting cheese, pickles, covered bowls of potato salad, sweet nut-bread and a bucket of Dennis Martin Mackenzie's homebrew, which the Aylward household got in trade for their hops and barley. Aylward scooped the thick-walled glass mug full twice with water before he filled it with beer; ale quenched thirst and tasted a hell of a lot better, but the alcohol made it go through you fast. Early training had made him careful about maintaining hydration, and it stuck even in this mild, wet climate.

  He never discarded a good habit. They tended to prolong your life.

  Tamar ate with the casual voracity of youth; the men with the solid appetite of those who burned six or seven thousand calories a day every day of the year except for the high holidays; Miguel Lopez added the reverence towards food of someone who'd worked nearly as hard and been kept hungry most days to boot since the Change.

  Aylward grinned to himself. Miguel had nearly wept when Melissa took the trouble to do up a dinner in the style of his homeland, not just Mexican but specifically Jaliscan, from tortas ahogadas to sweet jericalla custard. It had been a long time for him; Mrs. Lopez was what the Yanks called an Anglo, in a fit of mislabeling that never failed to amuse the man from Hampshire. Which in this case meant mainly Irish and German, and they'd met after the Change, so she'd never had a chance to learn that style of cooking. A Protectorate peon got enough to keep going, but not much more, and the quality was even lower than the quantity.

  "Where's Edain?" he asked Tamar, when the first draught of the dark brew had gone down his throat; school was only four days a week this time of year, with the farming calendar starting to creak into motion. His eldest son wouldn't be willingly inside.

  Tamar gave an evil chuckle. "Helping Mom. She roped him into minding Fand and Dick and Mrs. Smith's kids while they turn the cheeses," she said.

  Aylward smiled back, and the other two men laughed; for an active seven-year-old boy on a fine spring day child-minding would be purgatorial.

  Miguel looked out over the field as he stretched and worked his shoulders. "Not so bad," he said with satisfaction in his voice.

  "Not 'alf bad," Aywlard agreed.

  Nothing skimped or shirked, he thought to himself, nodding. They'd put honest sweat into the effort, and hard-won skill, and it showed. The disked field looked as smooth and rich as a cup of chocolate.

  "You know what I like about farming?" Miguel went on.

  "The lying about late in the morning?" Aylward asked, mock-solemn. "The freedom from worry and care?"

  All three men and the girl laughed, but Miguel went on: "It is, what's the word, straightforward. My children, I will never have to explain to them what it is their father does far away in some office. With the help of God"—he crossed himself—"we grow the food we eat. This is simple."

  Then he shrugged a little self-consciously, though nobody was disagreeing, and scooped up a mug of the beer. "So, patron, what do we do next?"

  Aylward wiped his mouth with the napkin and tossed it back into the basket. "I'll take the team over to the Oak Field and give it a going-over with the spring-tooth cultivator while you two are finishing up the harrowing 'ere," he said. "Folding the sheep on it last autumn was an easy way to dung the land, but there were too many weed seeds in it for comfort. That's the price of keeping them on rough grazing."

  "Didn't we do that field already?" Miguel asked.

  "I want to make certain and sure. It'll be a right cockup if that couch grass comes back on us. Then tomorrow we can get the compost out on the rest of the truck plot and disk it in, and some muck from that old stack by the field-byres. The rootstock on the new cherry orchard looks good, so we can start grafting on the scions in a week or—"

  The dark man nodded, listening carefully, frowning in concentration. Good, Aylward thought. Miguel wasn't just hard-working and willing; he was an eager learner on the thinking part of running a farm, the way you had to juggle time and effort and risk. He was getting ready for the time when he had land of his own. That was why Aylward always explained what had to be done, rather than just giving directions; Tamar was bending an ear as well.

  His voice cut off abruptly at the sound of galloping hooves, and everyone reached for the weapons that were always within reach, buckling on their sword belts. He and Húrin strung their longbows and slung their quivers over their backs; Miguel picked up the spear he carried instead, since he had trouble hitting a barn as yet unless he was inside it and the doors were closed. Tamar looked startled, but she readied her own light child's bow and drifted backward a little, ready to jump to any direction her stepfather might give.

  "One rider," Húrin said, cocking his head and using his keen youngster's hearing.

  Despite the sobering bite of caution, Aylward grinned at the thought. He'd once caught the lad standing in front of a mirror and pulling his ears up into points with thumb and forefinger.

  Harry-Húrin had blushed every time he saw Sam for weeks after.

  Not that I'm one to point a finger, he thought generously.

  Back when he was Húrin's age he'd dyed his hair blond because a girl told him it would make him look like Michael Caine, who he'd admired tremendously anyway, having seen the film Zulu—often—at an impressionable age. The color had come out more like a bright carrot orange, the girl had dropped him like a hot brick, which was more than she'd ever done with her knickers, and his father had hooted himself red-faced every breakfast for months as the botched mop grew out. Eighteen was the right age to make a proper burke of yourself, and there were worse ways than playing make-believe with your friends.

  "Coming fast up the main road from the west," Húrin went on; there was no nonsense in him when serious matters were at stake.

  The rider trotted into view, reined in and around when he saw them in the field, backing up a few yards and then putting his mount at the fence. It cleared ditch and boards and spreading, white-flowered hawthorn and landed with a spurt of damp clods under ironshod hooves, a goodish jump and fine riding. In the saddle was a nondescript young man with long, dark brown hair done in a queue through a silver ring, not a Mackenzie or at least not wearing a kilt; he was dressed instead in jacket and pants of plain green homespun linsey-woolsey, mottled with streaks of brown. A horn-and-sinew horseman's recurve bow rode in a case at his left knee with a round shield slung over it, a quiver over his back was stuffed with gray-fletched arrows, and a good, practical straight sword hung at his broad, brass-studded belt.

  "Mae govannen," he said, which cleared up which lot he ran with, if the white tree and seven stars and crown on the shield hadn't been enough. It made young Húrin prick up his nonpointed ears. "I'm looking for the First Armsman of Clan Mackenzie. Aylward the Archer."

  "That's me," Sam Aylward said, and got the expecting someone taller look he often did from those who knew him by reputation only. "Sorry if I don't live up to the stories. And who are you?"

  "I'm called Pilimór, sir."

  Or Pillock for short, Aylward didn't say aloud. The young man didn't smile as he leaned over and took Aylward's hand; he looked tired and a little frightened.

  "I've got a message for the First Armsman from the Hiril Astrid."

  He pulled an envelope out of one saddlebag. It was a brown office type, with the little folding split tin thing for closing it through a hole in the flap, in thi
s case covered with a blob of off-white candle-wax stamped with the Dunedain seal. That was a starry thing of ancient majesty dreamed up by Eilir about six months ago and set in rings for her and Astrid by a metalworker in Corvallis.

  He flicked the wax off with his thumb and carefully bent back the metal wings rather than ripping the paper; nobody was going to make any more of these anytime soon. Inside was a hand-drawn map of the Waldo Hills just east and north of the ruins of Salem; he recognized it at once, mainly because he'd been studying the Willamette Valley with professional thoroughness since that vacation in the Cascades just before the Change, and also because he'd taught

  Astrid and Eilir and many another how to sketch a field map. Arrows and notes were drawn across it in a close, neat hand. The message with it was short and to the point, despite the opening flourishes:

  From Astrid Hiril Dunedain, suilannad mehellyn în and well-met to Aylward the Archer, Aran Gweth Nô Mackenzie: Given by my hand at Mithrilwood, 4th March in the Ninth Year of the Fifth Age, in the Old Reckoning 2008 AD.

  Three columns of Protectorate troops have crossed the border into the Waldo Hills. Troops crossing border observed number approximately two thousand five hundred of which three hundred and fifty are light cavalry, scouts and mercenary horse-archers from the Pendleton area, and the remainder regulars, one-quarter knights and men-at-arms, the remainder bicycle- and horse-mounted infantry spearmen and crossbowmen, with heavy wagon trains including siege machinery and field engineering supplies following. Another force of roughly equal size is investing Mount Angel and its outposts. Labor gangs numbering at least five hundred accompany the supply trains, under guard, but we have made contact with anti-Protectorate elements among them and they inform me further force of indeterminate size is preparing to embark river transports escorted by turtle boats Oregon City last night, intended to seize the bridges at Salem. Locations, composition and directions of travel of all identified enemy forces marked on attached map. The Dunedain Rangers have kept contact with the enemy forces and will endeavor to slow them as much as possible while interdicting their supplies. A copy of this message has been dispatched to the Bear Lord at Larsdalen.

  Aylward stood thinking for a moment, lips tight, looked at the state of the messenger's horse—tired but not blown—and nodded.

  "Get this to Dun Juniper," he said, slipping message and map back into the envelope. "Tell the Chief and Chuck Barstow I'll be by directly, and that I advise calling up the First Levy immediately by mirror and smoke signal, with Sut-terdown as the rally-point. Evacuation as per the war plan."

  The First Levy was the younger and better-trained portion of the Clan's militia, and the town of Sutterdown was the most convenient place near the border.

  "Roit, Tamar. Get up behind the gentleman, drop off home, and tell your mum to have my kit and 'enry ready."

  Henry was his best riding horse; he could pick up a couple of remounts elsewhere. She looked at him with a worry-frown between her brows and then made it go away, and gave him a grin and a thumbs-up as she vaulted easily up behind the Dunadan.

  Good girl! he thought, with a momentary flash of warmth through chill focus as the horse went out the gate and down the laneway at a trot. This wasn't the first time he'd ridden away quickly, and she was getting old enough to know the possible consequences, but she didn't let it daunt her.

  "Miguel, you see to the beasts," he went on.

  Harry-no-I'm-Húrin was already following the messenger's horse at a tireless loping trot, the kilt swirling around his knees; he was in the First Levy, of course, and was off to get his gear and bicycle.

  "Patron—" Miguel began.

  Aylward sighed and clapped him on the shoulder. "Nobody doubts your guts, Miguel. But you're not a good enough bowman yet for the levy, and that's a fact. If worst comes to worst, you'll be on the walls with an ax. In the meantime … look after the beasts and the home-place for me, would you, mate?"

  Miguel put his own hand on Aylward's shoulder, to match the Englishman's gesture; the First Armsman of the Mackenzies reflected that, training or no, this was a man Arminger would find it expensive to kill.

  "Si," he said. "I do not forget how you rescue us from the baron's dogs, take us into your house, treat us like your own. I won't let any harm come to your home or wife or little ones while I live, Sam. I swear it by God and the Virgin."

  Larsdalen, Willamette Valley, Oregon

  March 4th, 2008/Change Year 9

  "Yeah, the letter said potatoes. Yeah, everyone's supposed to plant an extra fifth of an acre per adult. And yeah, I know it'll screw up the rotations. It's insurance because potatoes are a lot harder to burn in the field than ripe wheat. With the spuds, we can count on not starving this coming winter, at least. You do remember what it's like to starve, don't you?"

  The delegate from the town of Rickreall looked at the Bear Lord with horror in his eyes. "You mean … there's really going to be war, my lord?"

  Havel curbed his impatience. "Yeah, just like I've been warning everyone for months," he said.

  The Bearkiller ruler was dressed in a loose white linen shirt and the closest approach the handlooms could come to blue jeans and he had his two-year-old son on his lap. He looked almost as intimidating as he did in armor, with the bear's head on his helmet …

  "I'm sorry, Lord Bear, we just didn't understand—"

  "It's OK. My fault. I've got to learn to explain things more when I'm not giving orders on a battlefield. In the meantime, why don't you go around to the kitchens and get something to eat before you head home? Or you can bunk here for the night."

  When the farmer had gone, Mike Havel stretched back in his recliner. His son sighed and stretched out on top of him, tucked his yellow-thatched head under his father's chin and went to sleep with the limp finality small children shared with kittens and puppies. Havel put an arm around him, enjoying the solidity of the small body, the sense of absolute trust, even the smell of cut grass and clean hair.

  He'd never felt much urge to be a father before the Change … in fact, he'd been a loner to the core, happiest in the air flying, or in the wilderness. He hadn't even been able to keep a long-term girlfriend, despite being extremely handsome in a rugged Scandinavian-Indian fashion—as more than one ex-girlfriend had informed him, often popping it in the middle of a long list of his personality faults expressed at the top of their lungs, things like "cold" and "not giving." Now he was not only married, but the father of three … well, four if you counted Rudi Mackenzie, which around Signe was best left unspoken even if she'd come to terms, with it last year after that monumental cluster-fuck at the Sutterdown Horse Fair. Remembering that small figure standing before the killer horse still gave him the willies, too, so he banished it by hugging his son.

  Got to admit, family life has its points. Hope I can do as good a job of being a father as my dad did.

  He smiled his crooked smile. Their sole dinner guest tonight was Peter Jones of Corvallis. The rest of the extended family was gathered on the veranda of the pillared yellow-brick except for the kids. They were all out there on the lawn, running and shouting as they threw Frisbees for dogs that leapt like furry porpoises breaching for a fish at vanished Marine World. Or in the case of the younger children, just tumbling like puppies themselves. It was a fine spring afternoon, the first three-day stretch of clear weather they'd had since last October, and the grass had just been cut; the sweet, strong scent gave promise to the swelling buds of the lilacs and ornamental cherries.

  Good-looking bunch of kids, he thought with pride.

  There were his own twin girls, with their long golden braids swinging as they tried to bodycheck their cousin Billy, Eric and Luanne's eldest, from either side. The boy was a few months younger than them; he had the same hair color, but his skin was a sort of warm wheat-toast shade, which made his yellow thatch and turquoise eyes look brighter. His reflexes were something unusual too; that wicked double play generally worked for the twins, but he dropped flat and ro
lled away with the Frisbee in his hand, laughing as they cannoned into each other and collapsed in a squalling tangle. Not far away, his younger brother Ken was grimly trying to climb a tree, with a nurse looking a little anxious underneath—four was a bit young to get that high. Pamela's eldest played hopscotch … No more of that oh-dear-beanbag-is-too-aggressive-for-kids horseshit, at least, he thought, holding back the belly laugh to avoid waking the child sleeping against him.

  Out beyond the gardens columns of smoke rose from the buildings along the road to the gate, people getting ready for supper, finishing up work in the smithies and the forge, kids coming home from chores or school; sound came faint, metal on metal, a long dragonish hiss of something hot going into the quenching bath, the bugling call of a startled horse, a faint rumble from the overshot waterwheel he could see turning in a white torrent. The sun was heading for the horizon, and the crenellations of the gate-towers showed like black square teeth bared at heaven. Soon they'd be playing taps and lowering the Outfit's flag for the night, and it would be time for the family to go in and eat as well—eight adults counting the Huttons, and twelve kids counting their adoptees.

  He made a beckoning gesture with his free hand. The nanny came forward smiling and lifted Mike Jr. off his chest; she was a comfortable-looking middle-aged person with short, graying hair. They'd found her living in a culvert on the trip west from Idaho; she'd been caught on the road by the Change, miles from the arse-end of nowhere in the desert, and managed to keep her own two kids alive on what she could scavenge, mostly rabbits but at least one dog. Both her boys worked in the machine shop here.

  "I'll get him cleaned up and ready for supper, Mike," she said.

  "Let him sleep for an hour or so, Lucy," Havel said. "Little fellah was going at it hard today."

  I'm finally getting used to having all this household help, he thought. It does simplify things considerable.