SNOWFALL

by Mitchell Smith

  "I think we have to go faster." Catania lifted the baby off her hip and held him in her arms. "I think we have to run."

  Then they did run, Small-Sam crying, annoyed by the jouncing, and the nanny bucking at the end of her lead. Although many Market people saw them running along the Gulf's sandy edge, no one shouted that they were thieves, or chased them.

  Soon, there was only faint music to hear from musical bands. Fewer lean-tos stood along the high bank, and fewer people were camping down by the water. They were coming to the end of Market.

  "We're almost out," Newton said. "Bigger than it used to be…."

  There was shouting above them.

  "I see the place-sign," Joan said, and Catania saw it a bow-shot away and higher on the shore. It was the same as the first Market sign had been—square letters made out of heavy sticks to spell the word, and fastened high between two tall poles—though market looked odd, read from the back.

  A wall built of very big stones came down the bank and far into the water. Newton led them up alongside that wall, the tired nanny making naaa-naaa sounds.

  At the top of the bank—the leaving-Market sign only a little way away—there was a silent crowd of Market people. Soldiers were shouting, pushing them back from the wide white-shell pathway that ran under the sign, then away to the east.

  Newton slowed to walking, so Joan and Catania did the same. They walked to the path while the crowd watched them, but made no noise. The soldiers had stopped shouting, stopped shoving people.

  Newton stepped up onto the white path, then stopped and stood still, so Joan and Catania did the same.

  Everyone was watching them. Catania supposed the blue-hats had persuaded the soldiers that she and Joan should be burned after all. Her heart seemed to freeze in her chest at the thought of the baby burning, or lost and left without her. She looked, and saw that Joan thought the same. Joan's face was white; her knuckles were white on her lance shaft.

  An old man was standing under the Market sign. He was hairless, very thin, and naked except for brown short pants. The old man stared at them for a moment, then began dancing a slow dance.

  He sang as he danced, a whining little song about sunshine. He raised one bony knee high, then put it down and raised the other, then did the same again, but quickly. He made stroking motions in the air with his hands.

  Catania saw four people standing behind the dancing man. One was a gray-haired woman in a long dress, paneled green and blue. The other three were soldiers, who wore little gold and silver pieces on what must be chest armor, made of blue-tinted steel.

  Catania saw more of the ordinary marching-soldiers, many more, standing in rows across the pathway east.

  "What do we do?" Joan said to Newton.

  Newton said nothing for a little while. Then he took the cloth from his face, put down his pack, and stood leaning on his lance. "We wait for Gerald Kaufman to finish dancing."

  The old man—Gerald—smiled at Newton when he said this, as if they were friends, and kept dancing. Catania thought it very limber and pleasant to watch, though he never jumped off the ground or pretended to shoot game. Old-Gerald had no hair on him at all. Even his armpits had been plucked. Since he'd smiled in such a pleasant way, and was known to Newton, it seemed to Catania that there was no intent of burning.

  Old-Gerald finished his dance and his song of My-Only-Sunshine at the same time, by doing three quick little hops and making a yelping noise with each hop. It was interesting to see an old person so lively.

  Then, his dancing done, he came up to Newton and hugged him. "His second son," he said. "Where in Floating Jesus's name have you been for four years?"

  "His third son, and not needed here," Newton said. "I've been,... elsewhere."

  "Second son, now," the old man said, and stood back from Newton to look him up and down. "Your brother Michael was killed in Map-Arkansas, coming to a fair agreement. Your brother Adrian is north, persuading file-tooth tribesmen on the Ohio. Now, you are Newton Second-son—and bound by duty to your father, and Kingdom's people."

  Then, Catania saw in Newton's face a loss great as his loss of Lucy. He looked like an injured boy, though armed, and grown so large. "And if, even so, I choose to pass you by, Gerald, and go on my way?"

  "My dear, dear Prince, ask us for anything else but your leaving, and we would die so you might have it."

  "An exaggeration."

  "But not much of an exaggeration." The old man laughed, and the gray-haired woman and the soldiers all laughed just afterward.

  * * *

  "Would it be a good life for Small-Sam with your people? Would he be happy?"

  They stood in bright morning sunshine, on the polished yellow-wood floor of a boat—certainly, Catania thought, a 'deck,' as in Or the White Whale. The deck moved as the water under it moved, and shifted beneath her feet.

  "Would he be happy?" Newton said. "Perhaps."

  Catania's question was the same one she'd asked in the wonderful tent and pavilion Old-Gerald had provided the night before.

  Her same question, then. And Newton's same answer, as the three of them sat on orange-striped cushions, eating roast actual-pig, drinking warm dark cereal-beer, and listening to the musics of a soft band of three stringed instruments, with only a small finger drum and a shake-patty Newton called a tambourine.

  Old-Gerald had seen they were given all those things, and thick carpets with stories woven into them, and also a small enameled stove of red coals glowing against the evening's chill... . Soldiers had stood armed outside, standing still as if they'd died and were shrouded in their last-look ice.

  Tattooed Newton had been called a prince by all the Kingdom people—and each time they spoke to him, and called him Second-son, and Prince, he seemed to Catania to grow sadder, more silent, and separate from the Newton he had been on the Range.

  In the beautiful tent—so much more spacious than any house had been on the Range or in Gardens, Catania had asked questions about Middle Kingdom for Small-Sam's sake. Newton had answered, but never said truly welcoming words for the baby. Never said why he had left, those years ago, to travel to the mountains and become a Trapper.

  Joan, impatient, had put a pork bone down hard on her painted plate. "Here is everything we want, Catania. Everything is being offered to us, to our Newton. What fucking thing is wrong with you?"

  "Joan, these people tell even themselves what to do. They are order-givers and order-takers. And it seems—from what Newton will not say—that some of the orders are bad."

  "Catania...." Joan had picked up her bone, torn a piece of meat from it, then put it back on her plate and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "Catania, we are not in the free mountains, and can never be again. Now, there will always be orders."

  "You are not the Joan I knew, to say that."

  "No, now I'm a sensible-Joan—but you are not changed!" Joan had reached for the pork bone as if it was a weapon. "You are the same stupid Catania and not to be trusted with the baby."

  "Try to take him from me," Catania had said.

  Then Newton, sounding like a prince, had said, "Be quiet, both of you. I've heard enough from you, today." Then, more softly, he'd said, "I've heard enough from everyone...."

  Now, standing in bright morning light off the shore of the Gulf Entire, Catania knew the boat was a goodbye-boat. Still, she asked once more. "Couldn't be a good life with your people, for the baby?"

  "Perhaps a good enough life," Newton said, and Catania saw he was no longer even partly the Trapper she had known. A more complicated Newton had come to rest behind his eyes, as if a twin had taken his place amid the crowds of Market.

  "Small-Sam would be happy, Catania." Joan certainly looked pleased to be on the boat, and going east to Kingdom River with Newton. She looked happier than she had since her son, Del, was killed. "Newton," Joan said, touching his arm, "—is a better-than-chief here, so we will all make the baby happy."

  Catania stood, considering. Small-Sam slept in his
poozy at her hip. She swayed slightly as the deck swayed. This goodbye-boat was painted blood red, and floated out on the Gulf, though tethered to a wooden water-dock. It was a big boat—a 'barge,' Old-Gerald the Market Governor had said. There were five musicians sitting in the front of it, and twelve of the soldiers standing together. Lines of shirtless men were sitting along each side, holding long paddle-oars to make it go. These men wore iron collars, and were harnessed with chains.

  "I can tell you're still thinking stupid," Joan said. "Of course you and the baby must come with us. Where else would you go?"

  "Jack said we might go south ..."

  Joan made an impatient face. "Jack is dead."

  Catania turned to look along the boat again. A metal fire-pit was set in sand at the center of the deck, with coals burning dull red under a long steel grill. A thin man in a soft white shirt and trousers sat on one side with long-bladed knives and forked instruments on a folded red cloth. There were little bottles also, some of oil some with leaves in them, cut fine.

  A naked boy, very fat, lay on the other side of the pit, crying. His arms and legs were tied tight. All his hair had been shaved away, and he'd been rubbed with oil so his skin shone.

  Catania and Joan had asked about the tied boy when they'd walked down to the barge-boat from the night's fine pavilion. They'd asked, and Newton had said, "It can't be helped," and gave them a warning look. Gave Catania, particularly, a warning look.

  Then he'd said, "It's a welcome. But an unusual thing, now."

  The naked fat boy was crying; there was snot down his face. He tried to say something, but couldn't catch his breath. The man in white clothes reached over and hit him with a long wooden spoon.

  Catania wished to take that man and cut his throat on his own grill. "Tell me, Newton, in honor—were you happy here?"

  "No," Newton said, and looked out over the water, instead of into her eyes.

  "Would Jack have been happy here?"

  "... No."

  "Then Small-Sam cannot stay."

  "Foolish Catania!" Joan said. "Why would you leave us and be alone? You've never been alone—it might make you die."

  "I'll have the baby."

  "Yes, and you'll have the goat. That is still being alone." Joan was getting angry. "Suppose we took the baby from you after all, for your being such a dummy?"

  "I won't do that," Newton said.

  "I could do it," Joan said.

  "I don't think so." Catania shifted her grip on her lance, and thought how difficult it would be to fight Joan Richardson on this boat, and not have the baby hurt as she did it.

  Newton stepped between them, and the soldiers on the boat put their hands on their sword-knives' handles.

  "Very well, Selfish!" Joan said. "Selfish Catania. Take the baby so he dies on some dark road because you were so greedy to have him—"

  Newton reached quickly, took hold of Catania's lance shaft and held it. "Trade-honey...." he said, though only her father and Jack had ever called her that. "Trade-honey, you would not be happy in Kingdom—and Small-Sam would not be happy with you unhappy. So take him, and go on your way."

  Catania turned and went up the narrow plank bridge to the water-dock—went up quickly in case Newton changed his mind and sent the soldiers to take the baby. She wanted to run, but had to stop on the dock to untie the goat... and found she couldn't go away without goodbyes.

  She called down to them. "We haven't said goodbye!"

  Newton smiled up at her. "Goodbye, Doctor. You made Jack Monroe happy as he could be made. All honor to you."

  Joan said nothing. Then she set her lance aside and came up the plank walkway. "Oh, foolish Catania," she said, and there were tears in her eyes. "Will you forgive foolish Joan, and remember our Trapper times?"

  "Always...." Catania said.

  Joan hugged her, and bent to kiss the baby. Then she went back down to the barge-boat.

  "Catania," Newton called up to her, "—if anyone, south, asks why they should do you a kindness, tell them it would please Kingdom's Second-son, who in time will return all favors—and all offenses."

  "I will," Catania said, and stood watching as the rowers, spoken to, lifted their paddle-oars, then dipped them together. And steadily, steadily, the boat swam away into sunrise water, far out on the sun's own path, and the musicians began to play.

  It was surprising how clearly the music sounded.

  Small-Sam and I journey alone. We go Warm-time weeks south, with nanny-goat and memories.

  The memories sometimes crowd us on the road, when I travel dreaming—and Trappers walk with us or go sledding by on snow invisible, racing, laughing, their harness bells ringing so the baby wakes and cries.

  I woke once in a field, and by starlight thought I saw a wolf standing over the baby's blanket by me. But when I drew my knife, I woke truly, and saw it was Three-balls— there, then fading away—come in his dream to my dream, to visit.

  When Jack walks beside me, always in bright sunlight, I know it, and keep my eyes on the path so as not to see him.

  FROM THE JOURNAL OF DOCTOR CATANIA OLSEN

  CHAPTER 19

  Doctor Serrano had been up all night at Wrightsons. Their son had stepped on a rusty horse-nail in the stable, and Serrano had cut that small injury wide open and cleaned it with cactus brandy, then let it bleed, then cleaned it with brandy again and left it open and lightly bandaged. In time, the Wrightson's son—a brave well-behaved boy—would either die breaking his bones in convulsions, or he would not.

  The trip to Wrightsons, the medical work, and the trip back home, had taken the whole night from dark to dawn. It was therefore no pleasure to have maid-Peggy come wake him so early, saying, "Doctor, there is a barbarian at your door."

  "When not?" Doctor Serrano said, and climbed out of bed feeling old. He put on his robe, and went down the hall to see who was troubling him.

  He opened his door, at first saw no one, stepped out onto the stoop and saw a small brown nanny-goat. Then he saw the goatherd sitting in sunlight against the wall of his house. The barbarian stood up—a man, he thought at first—then saw it was a woman. She had an infant slung in a striped blanket at her hip.

  The doctor examined this specimen—a Northerner, obviously a cold-country tribeswoman, very tall, scarred ugly (fortunate that injury had missed the trigeminal nerve), and dirty as her goat. As he examined her, the specimen seemed to examine him.

  "Doctor?" she said. She spoke ugly book-English of course, like most in these northern provinces, descendants of those Greenos the cold had driven down so long ago. The Beautiful Language, lost here, was now only spoken far to the south, past the mountains.

  "Yes, I'm a physician," Serrano said, and sighed. It was difficult to imagine what might be unhealthy in such a female brute. She was armed, of course. There was a lance, and bow and quiver, leaning against the house wall beside a backpack.

  Then she made a gesture so familiar, so simple, so trusting that Emmanuel Serrano found himself, as always, wearied by it, and inescapably touched. The tall creature, her eyes pale and chill as the ice she'd been born to, lifted her baby from its blanket and held it out to him to be cured.

  The morning was cold in nearly the last of eight-week summer, too cold to examine the infant by his front door—an examination providing entertainment, as well, for any mule driver come down the street.

  Maid-Peggy would simply have to deal with any fleas….

  Doctor Serrano held his front door open, and gestured the woman into his house. She glanced at her weapons and pack, then came without them.

  The goat trotted after her. "No," Serrano said, "—not the goat."

  Putting the baby back in its carry-blanket, the woman led the goat back out and tied it to the front gate. Then she came back, stepped inside, and walked slowly down his hallway, apparently astonished by a floor of warm tile, and pictures along the walls. An engraving, particularly, stopped her and she stared at it.

  El Cid in battle with the Mo
ors.

  "Fighting isn't like that," the creature said.

  "Oh?" This was going to take the whole morning; there would be no getting back to bed.

  "They are too ... composed."

  So. Height, a scar, and—it seemed—a brain and Warm-time vocabulary. "I suppose," Serrano said, "—the picture isn't quite realistic."

  The woman suddenly turned to him with the most extraordinary expression of rage and terror—and a knife, a long knife was out, and she leaped this way and that in the hall, all the while clutching the baby to her. Her movements reminded Serrano, in the midst of his shock and startlement, of a sort of insanely violent series of spasms.

  "That," the scarred woman said—now standing still, thank God, "—that is like fighting."

  "I see ..." said Doctor Serrano.

  In good morning light, the baby lay on the examining table in the back room. Looking up, he observed Serrano with much the same steady attention as his scar-faced mother—or perhaps not his mother, considering the milking goat.

  "Are you the child's mother?"

  "Before, no. Now, yes." She was standing near, watching what he was doing with the baby.

  "I'm being certain his eyes can follow my finger," Serrano said, to allay any misapprehension; the long knife and leaping-about not forgotten.

  "I know," the woman said.

  ... Then "I'm tapping his belly, listening for any odd sound of distension—of swelling."

  "I know," the woman said.

  "... And now, I'm examining his mouth and gums, to observe any lesions, and the commencement of teething."

  "I know."

  Doctor Serrano, really quite tired, had heard enough 'I knows.' "Listen—whatever your name is—you don't know. That's why I'm a doctor and you are not!"

  "I am a doctor," the scarred woman said. "And scientific. I don't shake bones or talk to any spirit but Mountain Jesus."

  "Ah ... Really? Well, then, you have no need of me, Doctor."

  "I don't know warm-country diseases. I thought it might be just-beginning pops."