“I did everything I could,” Alma answered, stung, “and this is the way the cards fell.”
“He’s gone to the grove,” Jerry said, and Mitch gave him a startled look.
“Damn it. It should have been me,” Mitch said.
“Or me, or Jerry, or anyone, yes, I know.” Alma made her voice hard so that no one could hear the tears. “But it’s not our choice, it’s moved beyond our choice. He’s gone to the grove.”
Jerry stretched out his arm and she came into its shelter, settling herself beside him on the cold ground. Mitch patted her knee, apology and proffered comfort, and went back to fixing Jerry’s leg. The clouds were clearing, the quarter moon sailing free. The mist was fading from the lake, and the moon’s reflection was visible, Diana’s Mirror in truth. Jerry’s arm tightened around her shoulder, and just for a moment longer she let herself lean against his warmth, and breathe in the smell of sweat and tobacco and the amber of his cologne. Then she pushed herself to her feet and went to stand on the edge of the slope, looking out onto the lake, her back to the grove.
Lewis slipped between the trees, the knife ready in his hand. He knew the creature was ahead of him in the dark, could guess that it was circling to his right, trying to drive him back onto the broken ground he had just crossed. The footing would be bad there for a fight. He edged left instead, between saplings springing from a shattered stump, feeling his way up the gentle slope.
The sudden movement had him turning even before his mind had fully registered what he’d seen, so that the rushing attack caught him on the flank and shoulder, not the back. The man it wore was young and strong, taller than Lewis by a finger’s breadth, and heavier. Lewis went down under the onslaught, landed kicking and rolled free as his heel hit the other man’s knee and his elbow caught him in the gut. He caught a quick glimpse of the stranger — young, fair, hair cut short over staring eyes — and then the creature was on him again, flourishing what looked like a gardener’s pruning knife. Lewis dodged the first sweep, but the second touched him, the wicked hooked tip of the knife slicing across the point of his shoulder. He ignored the flaring pain, stepped into the younger man’s guard, felt his own knife slice cloth and flesh, skipping along the other’s ribs. The young man hissed with the shock and pulled away, vanishing into the dark.
One of the Marines, Lewis thought. One of the French Marines from the wreck. It must have jumped from Henry to him, and then dragged him south to the dig. Ok, he’s younger than me, and it felt like he’s faster, but I might be a little stronger. And I’ve killed, and I don’t believe he has. He’s too young to have fought in the War. I can take him.
He circled to his right, remembering the rocks behind him, remembering the pitch of the ground. It had been like this over France, time stretching between heartbeats, all the pieces of the dance sharp and clear in his mind. Here’s the Fokker, there’s the ack-ack, there’s our line and theirs and the steeple with the sniper, and there’s only one right move that brings you onto the enemy’s tail, guns spitting fire, until the stranger crumples and falls from the sky, flames eating the wings…. He had loved the hunt then, that was his dirty secret, and a part of him reveled in it even now.
He moved deeper into the trees, ears cocked for the slightest hint of sound. It was darker here, the undergrowth ready to trip and tangle, but he moved with patience, the knife ready in his hand. The Marine was turning, trying to get on his tail; Lewis shifted his hand on the knife, shortening his grip, and moved left, edging into the greater darkness. He heard the Marine stumble, turned slowly. Yes, there he was, a black shape facing the path. Lewis gathered himself and sprang.
The Marine turned at the last moment, and the blow Lewis had meant for his heart sliced between ribs and arm. He ducked under the Marine’s slashing counterstroke, and kicked out, trying to bring him down. The Marine dodged the blow, and brought the hooked knife around in another wild sweep. Lewis leaned out of the way, grabbed left-handed for the Marine’s jacket, but the torn fabric ripped under his hand. The Marine yanked free, and disappeared into the shadows.
Lewis braced himself, and when no counterattack came, made himself stop and listen. He didn’t think he’d touched him this time, but maybe he’d winded him. Yes, the other was moving away again, into the heart of the woods. He followed.
The underbrush opened up again, trees parting on a narrow clearing thick with grass. He could smell something sweet, some flower crushed by the Marine’s passing, knew he was waiting in the dark between the trees. It was brighter now, the moon fully free of the clouds, caught in the branches of the trees that surrounded the clearing. Time to draw him out, he thought, and stepped into the open. He lifted his blade in salute, and the creature rushed him. Lewis swung to meet him, blocked the first wild sweep of the knife, but the second curled across his biceps, drawing a line of fire. He ducked, grabbed for the knife hand, and blocked the knee that rose for his groin. The Marine was off balance, and he drove his shoulder hard into the younger man’s chest, flattening him as though they were playing football, playing for money and pride and without many rules. The Marine flailed, trying to throw him off, trying to free his knife hand; Lewis slammed his wrist against the ground, trying to get him to drop the knife, but the turf was too soft to do much good. He planted his knee in the younger man’s gut, felt him try to double up, retching, and caught him by hair and arm, pulling him up to his knees so he could get his knife against the other’s neck
The Marine froze, trembling. His fingers opened, the knife falling to the turf. Lewis marked where it fell, but he had no chance to push it away. He could see the Marine’s face clearly now, the moonlight at last falling full into the grove: a plain, slightly pock-marked kid, dirty and unshaven and terrified.
It’s not his fault. The voice that whispered in his ears came from nowhere. He’s innocent, he had no choice. You cannot kill him for this. It’s only me you want.
Above them, the moon was silent.
Lewis hesitated, though he didn’t loosen his grip. It wasn’t the kid’s fault — he hadn’t asked the demon to possess him, had just been in the wrong place, trying to help the survivors of a terrible crash. But if he let him go — the creature controlled him, any weakness, any mercy would just be an invitation for another attack. Or it would flee, and they’d have to begin all over again, at the cost of God knew how many deaths. If the others were here, maybe they could have driven the creature out, but he’d passed beyond that point a long time ago. They had come to the heart of the grove, beyond mercy, and there was only one way out.
“No,” Lewis said. Innocents died in war, he’d killed a few himself. The men he’d killed then were no more guilty than himself. And he had more to protect now, he had chosen his path. He drew the knife across the young Marine’s throat.
Blood spurted, black in the moonlight. He jerked away from it, shivering, knew this was not the first time this grove had seen the sacrifice. This was where the kings were made, this was where they died — this was where the thing had first been imprisoned, the demon held at bay, bound by the bargain, the gamble of desperate men. He could see that now, the first priest, the first killer, squatting in the dark by an open grave, his life forfeit to any successful challenger, all to keep the creature bound beneath stone earth. The Thracian gladiator had never made that bargain, never looked up to the merciless sky and known his life was given, forfeit, win or lose. If he had, it could never have touched him.
He knelt on the turf, looked up at the quarter moon sailing free of the trees. This was supposed to be Jerry’s job, Alma’s, Mitch’s…. If there were spells, prayers to be uttered, he didn’t know them. I’m yours, he said silently. I took your bargain gladly. Help me now.
This was the grove. The oldest temple, older even than the procession he had glimpsed, old as the gods themselves. This was the oldest rite of all. Life for death. Two men enter the wood and one returns. He saw them then, king after king, young and old, scarred and whole, each one scraping a grave from
the broken ground, burying either the challenger or the defeated king, digging the hole with knife and hands. The one who does not return is forgotten, unknown, unremarked, except by the man who killed him. The kings remember. That is also the bargain of Diana’s grove.
He touched the Marine’s face, feeling the skin already cool, and curled him into a fetal position so that he would be easier to move when the grave was ready. He took the tablets from his pockets, tucked them into the Marine’s shirt, against the skin of his chest. Then, methodically, he began to carve the turf, marking out a grave.
The dawn was coming over the lake, stars paling though only at the far horizon was there the faintest flush of pink.
Jerry sat silent, waiting. He could only watch through the night, and so that was the thing he would do. Not for anything would he have ever watched through another night like this with her. Gil had passed at dawn, as the dying so often do. He and the doctor and Alma…. Mitch had made coffee. Because it was what he could do.
Now there was no coffee, only silence. Only the sound of the distant pumps, the first chirpings of birds in the eaves of the woods, singing aloud to their mates.
Alma sat with her knees drawn up, her arms around them, staring at the lake.
Mitch said nothing.
But sooner or later one of them would have to. One of them would have to say, “Let’s go back to the dig.” One of them would have to say, “Alma….”
It could damn well be Mitch this time. Jerry bent his head, his face against his arms.
Alma made a tiny sound, some strangled sort of cry, and Jerry’s eyes popped open.
Lewis was coming through the edge of the woods. His hands and clothes were smeared with blood and dirt, a day’s growth of beard on his face. He walked stiffly and he bore no weapon.
Alma started to her feet, a choked noise escaping from her throat, and Lewis came down the bank carefully. His eyes were dark.
She came to him but did not embrace him, just stood forearm to forearm, looking into his face.
“It’s me,” Lewis said. He took the amulet from his pocket and held it in his hand, unblemished steel shining with power. Beside it lay a red stone, carved carnelian. His voice was steady, almost dispassionate. “I buried him in the woods in the old grove, where the first altar was, the tablets with him. He was a French Marine. I don’t know his real name.” His eyes roved over Alma’s face as Jerry and Mitch came up, Mitch’s hand on his knife. “I buried him as king of the grove. That’s what took so long. I dug the grave with my hands.”
Jerry swallowed.
“Is that only Lewis?” Mitch asked.
Jerry nodded and put his hand on Lewis’, the amulet and stone between them. “Yes,” he said. Lewis, marked with blood, with fading marks of power. “You are Her priest,” he said.
Lewis nodded. He looked at Alma, and his eyes were bright with pleading. “It was the only way,” he said. “It was the only way for the story to work. Don’t you see? The only way to fix it was to make it right.”
“Two men go into the wood,” Jerry said. “And one returns Rex Nemorensis, Diana’s priest.” He looked up at the paling sky. “But Her grove is the world, and Her dominion far greater than this valley.”
Alma lifted one hand, put it against Lewis’ cheek. He almost flinched, stilled himself with will. “You killed him.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes were on his. “And you are Hers for how long?”
Mitch made a slight movement. He knew the answer, but Jerry gave him a warning look.
“For the rest of my life,” Lewis said gently. “And God willing that will be long.”
Jerry felt his eyes prickle. “Until She takes back what she has given,” Jerry said. “Until She calls for the sacrifice. Until it is needed.”
Alma nodded, her gaze never moving from Lewis’ face. “Ok,” she said. She looked away, casting around at the valley. “Do you actually have to stay here? I mean, I like Italy, but….”
“I don’t think so,” Lewis replied. “It’s like Jerry said. Her grove is the world, and we are all within it, hunters and hunted alike.”
The rose flush of dawn crept higher, and a water bird took flight, long slow lazy strokes gliding over the lake. Jerry took the stone from Lewis’ hand, held it up to the growing light. “Seal stone,” he said. “Roman, probably second century.” The carving was deep and sharp, clear as though it had been carved yesterday. A running hound.
“I found it when I dug the grave,” Lewis said. “I thought….”
Jerry handed it back to him. “It’s yours,” he said. “Your office.” His voice was oddly choked, and he cleared his throat. “We should get out of here before people start showing up for work.”
“Right,” Mitch said. “Let’s go.”
Jerry needed Alma’s help to get down the bank, and she put her arm around his waist to do it. Mitch fell back beside Lewis, and Jerry heard what he said, though he spoke quietly. “I’ll be here when the time comes,” Mitch said.
“I know,” Lewis said, and there was certainty there.
They came slowly down out of the hills in the swelling light, Jerry leaning heavily on his cane and whoever was closest to hand. Except Mitch, Alma saw with relief. Jerry managed himself so that it was always her or Lewis who took his weight, and that was a good thing. Mitch was looking gray, not bothering to hide the fist pressed into his belly, and she’d seen Lewis steady him when they thought she wasn’t looking. One more thing to deal with now that they had survived.
The sun was not yet up beyond the rim of the hills, but the sky was bright, the last clouds fading to the west into the promise of a clear day. A beautiful day for flying, the air gentle, thermals on the hills and cooler air in the bowl of the lake. She’d seen the birds soaring yesterday, too high to be more than the flicked sketch of wings against the blue. They’d be up again today, riding the rising air, circling silent and uncaring over the bustle of the Prime Minister’s visit. And no one would faint, there would be no political shocks, no spreading scandal. All the things that might have happened now would not. She closed her eyes for a moment in silent thanks, then concentrated on keeping them moving together toward the road.
The woods looked vastly different by daylight, but Lewis led them unerringly, down paths that at first were so faint that Alma barely recognized them as more than an occasional break in the undergrowth, and then by wider tracks that had been made by human feet, and finally at last onto the rutted track that led to where they had left the car. The sun was up at last, just breaching the ring of the hills, and Alma paused to take stock.
They looked better than they had after the airship crash, but that wasn’t saying much. There was mud on the knees of Jerry’s trousers, and on the elbows and cuffs of his well-cut jacket. Mitch was muddy, too, and disheveled, but Lewis…. She grimaced, and he met her eyes with a apologetic shrug. He was frankly filthy, and in the rising light, some of the stains showed rusty brown. She doubted she looked much better herself, crumpled and water-stained. At least the car would hide the worse of their disarray, and there was a back entrance to the penzione from the old stables where they’d been told to leave the car.
“We need to keep moving,” she said, more for the sound of a human voice than because they didn’t know it, and Jerry dredged a smile from somewhere.
“Thank God for modern transportation.”
He made easier progress on the road, and now it was Mitch who lagged behind. Alma watched him out of the corner of her eye, saw him disappear into the woods for a moment and return wincing. It was the old trouble, then, and that meant they’d have to find a doctor sometime soon.
The car was where they had left it, pulled neatly off the pavement into the shadow of the pines. Alma rested her hand on the door, still chill with dew, and waited for the others to come up. Jerry couldn’t drive, of course, and Lewis needed to be hidden —
“I’ll drive,” Mitch said.
She drew breath, ready to protest, and
he smiled.
“Come on, Al, three guys, and you’re driving? That’s asking for the Carabinieri to take notice.”
And Jerry couldn’t drive, and Lewis needed to be hidden. Alma gave a reluctant nod. “You’re right. But — take it easy, will you?”
“Trust me,” Mitch said, and she almost believed him.
The back seat was narrow, a struggle for Jerry, but once they were in, it was hard to see past the round rear windows. Jerry had taken off his jacket, handed it to Lewis, who flung it over himself like a blanket. They might pass for travelers, Alma thought, living rough. She took her place at Mitch’s side, and waited while he coaxed the engine to life. They waited, letting the car warm up, and Alma tipped her face to the sun, relaxing for what seemed like the first time since they’d left Los Angeles. She could almost sleep now, safe here, all of them safe for now….
“Al?” Mitch said, and she shook herself awake.
“I’m ready if you are.”
“Ok,” he said, and slid the car into gear.
There wasn’t much traffic on the road at this hour. They were behind the milkman, Alma guessed, and ahead of even the first workmen, though as Mitch swung the car onto the main lake road, they passed a farm cart piled with hay. And then they were at the crossroads, where the pilgrim road came down from Rome, and a man in a dark uniform and a bicorn hat worn crossways held up a hand to stop them.
“Carabinieri,” Jerry said quietly, to Lewis, and Alma saw Lewis slump down further beneath the concealing jacket.
Mitch downshifted, bringing the car to a smooth stop, and rolled down his window. “Is there a problem?”
The man looked down his nose and didn’t deign to answer, but a second policeman moved back from the intersection. He was carrying a carbine in white-gloved hands. “The Prime Minister is coming,” he said. “The road is temporarily closed.”
“Oh,” Mitch said. “All right, then. Thank you.”
He left the window down, and Alma could hear already the sound of engines, coming rapidly closer. Across the road, a third policeman had stopped another cart and a pair of young women on bicycles; another bicycle stopped behind their car, and then a battered canvas-topped truck. The engines were louder now. She could make out motorcycles, the deeper note of several heavy cars. And then the first of the motorcycle escort flashed into view, more dark uniforms and polished boots and gauntlets. The Carabinieri snapped to attention, arms extended in the Roman salute, and the first of the three cars slid by. It was followed by an open car, and in it sat a man in uniform, jaw jutting proudly, the sunlight glinting from a chest spangled with medals.
Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 Page 35