by M. L. Brown
Tsurugi picked up his pack and began to descend the hill. We followed with many groans, dragging our feet across coarse moor grass and tiny white star-flowers. The sun grew hot as we reached the base of the hill. The river seemed a long way off. After pausing for a brief meal, we pressed on, stumbling like drunken men. Time passed. The stone outcrop drew slowly nearer. By the time we arrived, it was all I could do to keep from collapsing.
We made camp in a meadow by the river. Rocks jutted from the ground, shielding us from the wind. I dropped my pack, lay down on the grass and passed out. Reviving a few minutes later, I drank some water, found a blanket, curled up at the base of a rock and plunged back into sleep.
I awoke stiff and cold. It was hard to move. I sat up and looked around. It was three or four o’clock, judging by the position of the sun, and I was alone. Panic swept over me. What had become of the others? Did the Nomen carry them away? What was I going to do?
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” said Regis from behind me.
“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” I gasped. “You’re going to make my heart fail.”
“Sorry, old boy. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Where the devil are Tsurugi and Miles?”
“They left to find food. Tsurugi was about to go alone, but changed his mind and took Miles with him.”
“That’s odd. They don’t seem like the sort who would enjoy each other’s company.”
“Maybe they want to talk.”
I scoffed. “I rather doubt that.”
“I hope Miles is holding on,” said Regis. “He’s suffering horribly. I’m amazed he hasn’t given up.”
“What are we going to do now?”
“Tsurugi told me to wash the clothes. If you’d be so kind to lend me your help, old boy, we’d better start while the sun is still warm.”
My friend, Modern Man is a marvel. He has succeeded in delegating many of his mundane chores to machines. Machines cook his meals, clean his dishes, heat his leftovers—there seems no end to Modern Man’s efficiency. However, Modern Man has overlooked the problem with this arrangement. When the machines are removed, Modern Man finds himself utterly incapable of managing without them.
“Wash the clothes,” I groaned, waist-deep in icy water with a sodden blanket in my hands. “It sounds so easy.”
“Hush and wash,” said my companion, wrestling with a pair of trousers.
We laid out the laundry to dry in the sun and changed into dry clothes. “Dratted champagne baths,” I muttered, wringing out my underclothes.
“I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Never mind. What are we going to do now?”
“We could catch fish.”
“With what? Our hands?”
“Good point, old boy. We could make a fire.”
“I think it would be too dangerous. If the Nomen are near, they would see the smoke.”
“We could dig for roots.”
“What would we do with roots?”
Regis shrugged. “Eat them, I suppose. When I was a boy, I heard tales about knights and hermits who lived off roots and wild honey.”
“I don’t see any bees.”
“You’re awfully pessimistic. What do you suggest we do?”
“I’m still tired. Maybe we should get some sleep.”
“Excellent thought, old boy. Now then, what did we do with the blankets?”
I struck my forehead with the palm of my hand. “I’m a deuced fool. I washed them in the river. They’re soaking wet.”
“Well,” said Regis, stroking his chin with a thoughtful air, “I suppose that leaves us only one alternative.”
“What might that be?”
“We play cards.”
He drew a beaten pack of cards from a pocket, sat down and began to deal them into two piles. Rather than grotesque portraits of royalty, the cards bore images from nature: flowers and flames and raindrops and so forth. Each card was marked with a number.
“I don’t know how to play cards,” I said. “I mean, not these cards.”
“Have a seat and I’ll teach you a simple game. I won’t insist if you’d rather not. I just thought it would help pass the time.”
My friend, there are only three things in the world at which I’m very skilled. Card games are one of them. In my years as an Oxford student, many a night that could have been devoted to profitable study had instead been spent playing bridge and whist with three lads who lived in the flat beneath mine. All of this to say: I was confident of my ability to hold my own against Regis.
I listened as he explained the rules of a game called dealings. It was based on the exchange of cards between two players. The object of the game was to form sets of cards, each of which was valued at a certain number of points. The player with the most points won. A player was never sure of what card he might receive next, making it difficult to decide which cards to keep, which to discard and which to give the other player. Though a little strategy could be helpful, dealings was mostly a game of chance.
Regis won our first game. “That wasn’t bad for a beginner,” he said.
“Just you wait, Regis. The day of judgment is at hand.”
He won our second game. “You’re getting better,” he said.
“You’re cheating.”
“Nonsense. I’m a gambler, old boy. Winning is how I earn my bread.”
“One more game,” I said, steeling myself for battle.
He won our third game. “You’re definitely getting better,” he said.
“You’re definitely cheating,” I replied, putting down my cards. “I just can’t prove it. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Dash it, I wish Tsurugi and Miles would come back. I’m beginning to worry about them.”
“I’m sure they’re fine. Tsurugi doesn’t seem like the sort who’d go and lose himself.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said, and yawned. “You know, I might try to sleep under a wet blanket. Evening is coming on, and I’m exhausted.”
“This one seems pretty dry,” he said, prodding a blanket with his finger.
“Only because it’s the thinnest.”
“You really are a pessimist. See here, old boy, it’s better than nothing.”
“I suppose. Do you mind sleeping back to back?”
“To keep each other warm, you mean?”
“And to share the blanket.”
“Do you snore?”
“I don’t think so.”
“All right, no objections.”
We lay down and covered ourselves up. I fell asleep immediately in spite of the wet blanket and hard ground, and as I slept I dreamed a dream. I was lying in my own bed in Oxford, covered with a wonderfully warm, heavy quilt. Then I dreamed that the fabric of the quilt tore and soft down poured out of the rift. Curiously, the down kept pouring and pouring until I began to suffocate.
Then I awoke and realized I was lying under a thick layer of snow.
I scrambled to my feet, brushed away the snow and shouted, “Regis!”
A snowy mound beside me stirred.
“Get up,” I said, pulling him to his feet.
“What time is it?” he mumbled.
“It’s too dark to tell.”
“Where are Miles and Tsurugi?”
I looked around. “I can’t see them—but then, I can’t see much of anything.”
“Should we go looking for them?”
“We would only get lost, and what would happen if they came back and found us gone? No, we need to wait until they get back.”
So we waited. The rocks sheltered us from the wind, so it wasn’t nearly as cold as you might think. We found a crevice between two boulders and stuffed our packs into it to keep them dry. I began to feel thirsty, so I ate some snow. It was a mistake. The snow chilled me from inside and didn’t quench my thirst.
The wind blew itself out. The snow fell in perfect silence a while longer and then stopped. The landscape had changed from green and brown to whi
te. Far above us the clouds drifted away, and the rising moons made the snow sparkle.
“I’m hungry,” I announced.
“My stomach is shriveling away to nothing,” said Regis. “Let’s find something to eat.”
As he struggled to pull the packs out of the crevice in the rocks, I climbed onto a boulder to see whether Tsurugi and Miles were near. To my great joy, I saw two figures plodding toward us.
“They’re almost here,” I said.
Regis climbed the boulder and stood beside me, putting a hand on my shoulder to steady himself. “Oi, over here!” he shouted. Leaping to another boulder, he waved his arms and kept shouting.
“They see you,” I said. “No need to wear out your voice.”
The moment we were rejoined by our companions, I knew there was something different about Miles. There had been a look of pain on his face, like the bewildered agony of an injured animal. There was still pain in his expression, but it was of a different kind. It was a calm, patient pain.
Tsurugi’s face was as empty as it had ever been.
“By Jove, I’m glad to see you,” I said. “I was beginning to worry that you had lost your way. Did you bring back anything to eat?”
“Mushrooms, roots and squirrels,” said Miles.
“I told you we could eat roots,” exclaimed Regis.
“We need to make camp,” said Tsurugi. “We leave for Ventus early tomorrow morning.”
We found a sheltered spot between two boulders. Tsurugi stretched the largest blanket across the tops of the rocks when it began to snow again, making a sort of tent. He hardly slept that night, getting up every half hour to brush off the blanket so that the weight of the snow didn’t collapse it.
The next morning, we gathered our baggage and set off along the river in single file. Only after we had walked several miles did I remember the clothes we had left out to dry on the rocks near the river. I swore with passion, but it was too late to go back and get them. We pressed on. The snow came and went.
Tsurugi seemed more distant than usual. When we halted for our noon meal, he told us, “We can’t stop tonight.”
“What?!” yelled Regis and I in perfect unison.
“A blizzard is coming,” he said. “We’ll die if we’re caught in it. We have to keep going.”
I launched into a tirade of curses, employing a number of phrases that had lain forgotten since my childhood in California, a state renowned for its creative use of the English language.
Night fell and the ground began to rise. To our left the river cascaded into pools and rushed away into the dark; before us the black shapes of the mountains stood against the darkness of the sky. Miles began to cough around midnight. By next morning, after more than twenty hours of walking, he and Regis were fevered.
We paused for breakfast and an hour of sleep. I was jerked back to consciousness by a sound that exploded through the winter air like a string of firecrackers. It was Miles coughing.
“We have to stop,” mumbled Regis. “Miles can’t travel like this, and I’m not feeling too well.”
“There’s no time,” said Tsurugi. “We keep moving.”
Tsurugi passed me the brandy flask, telling me to finish it. I drank half and gave it back to him. For once he didn’t argue and drank it as though it were water.
“Not to be unkind, but I’m astounded you can stomach that swill,” said Regis.
“It is not swill,” I objected. “It’s good stuff. I’ll keep a while, now I’ve had a drink.”
“You sound as if you mean to pickle yourself.”
“Hush,” I said. “Tsurugi, we ought to leave two of the packs. Regis and Miles can’t carry any weight in their condition. You and I will have to tighten our belts and take what we can. We can resupply in Ventus.” As I said this, I hoped I wouldn’t have to sacrifice my private store of valores to buy provisions.
We stumbled onward. The sun vanished around noon. Clouds stretched across the sky like a vast blanket of dirty wool. The ground became steeper and steeper. Looking back, I could see the forest far off. The mountains loomed ahead, leering at us with jagged stone teeth and shadowy clefts that looked like deep-set eyes.
We stopped for lunch on a little knoll by the river. I was disappointed with my portion: three mushrooms, a root sliced into pieces and half a squirrel.
The mushrooms were unlike any I had ever seen. Their stems tapered upward. The caps, which balanced precariously upon the cone-shaped stems, were a violent shade of mottled orange. They looked highly poisonous. The root was no better, being about as palatable as dried leather.
Then there was the squirrel. In my experience, meat had always come in the form of plastic-wrapped packages from the supermarket. My meat had never before stared at me with glassy eyes. I almost resolved to become a vegetarian. The memory of my mother’s steak-and-kidney pie banished all thoughts of vegetarianism, but didn’t assuage the experience of eating a squirrel. We didn’t have the time or fuel for a fire, so I ate the meat raw. It was unpleasant, but it was food.
We lingered after lunch, unwilling to stand and walk on our shaking legs. Then the silence was rent by another series of explosive coughs from Miles, and we were on our way. He was pale. His eyes were bright—too bright. He began to mutter things under his breath.
“I smell smoke,” he said. “There’s ashes on the wind…ashes…smoke…dark gray, burning black…coals and ashes and smoke…smoke…smoke.”
Regis gave me a fevered look that said plainly, “He’s out of his head, and I think I’m beginning to lose it myself.”
Twilight descended with a shower of snow, and we quickened our pace.
“Almost there,” said Tsurugi.
We reached the top of the slope and followed the river to a valley between two peaks. There before us, clustered around the river, were houses.
“Ventus!” shouted Regis.
Then, with a blast and a scream, everything went white.
10
LANCE ELIOT HEARS SEVERAL INTERESTING STORIES
I SAT ALONE IN the middle of a blank canvas. Everything was white as far as I could see: white above me, white beneath me, white to either side of me, earth and sky and everything in between a single swirling shade of white. I could have wept. We had come through danger and darkness and cold and hunger only to die on the threshold of safety.
Then a spark of resolve flared within me. It didn’t seem right to give up. Why not try to find the others? I had nothing to lose. Forcing myself to stand, I squinted into the blizzard. Where was Tsurugi, drat him? I shouted, but it was no good. I couldn’t hear even my own voice. I made myself think. Where had we been standing when the blizzard hit? Tsurugi and Miles had led the group, about six feet ahead. Regis had been just a few paces behind me. I turned and blundered through the storm, arms sweeping the snow.
There is a wonderful irony about those moments of calm despair. When we have nothing to lose is often when we win.
My left hand made contact with something hard. I turned and saw the dark shape of someone standing next to me. He seemed to be holding his nose. Seizing him by the hand, I dragged him toward the spot where I had judged Tsurugi to be standing when the blizzard hit. We had taken hardly more than a few steps when we met a pair of dark shapes shuffling toward us. Joining hands, we stumbled in the direction in which we guessed the town lay.
Something took shape against the eddying snow. It was a building. I gave a shout of relief (which no one heard) as we reached it and felt solid stone beneath our hands. Feeling our way round the sides of the building, we found a door. A knocker was set in its center and a bell-pull hung to one side, swaying in the wind. I hammered the knocker as one of my companions yanked the bell-pull, his arm jerking up and down like a rusty piston.
The door opened and we tumbled inside, only dimly aware of a very small person hopping up and down and exclaiming, “Mama, Mama, look what funny men are here!”
A woman entered with a candle and cried, “Goodness, Conrad
, who are these people?”
“I don’t know, Mama,” said the child. “I opened the door and they fell in.”
Regis lifted his head. A stream of blood ran from his nose to his chin. “Let us stay,” he pleaded. “In Pelea’s name, don’t make us go out there again.”
“Off with your coats,” rapped the woman, setting the candle on a side-table. “I’ll go heat some water. Put your coats in the corner there—not on the carpet, please, over there by the wall—and come into the kitchen to warm yourselves up.”
We followed her into the kitchen. Miles could hardly walk, so we half-carried him to a chair near the stove.
“Conrad,” said the woman, “get blankets from the upstairs closet.”
The boy shot out of the kitchen and returned with blankets. The stove filled the room with warmth and light. The cold became a distant dream.
“What happened to your nose?” I asked Regis as he wiped blood from his chin.
“You smacked me.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry about that.”
“It’s all right.”
“By Jove, I wish I had a hot Scotch and lemon.”
“What’s a Jove?”
“Jupiter, in Roman mythology—dash it, never mind. I really wish I had a hot Scotch and lemon.”
“You look awful,” piped up a small voice. Conrad stood next to Miles, peering at him with interest. “You sick, Mister,” he said gravely. “When I’m sick, Mama gives me nasty sir-wup from the apothe—” He paused, trying to enunciate the word. “—the apothecawy.” He made a face. “It’s nasty.”
“Conrad,” called the woman, who was chopping potatoes. “Stop bothering those poor men. You won’t have a bath tonight. Go directly to bed, understand?”
“Wha-bout my kiss?”
The woman held the knife behind her back, leaned over and left a kiss on the little brown head. “Now go to bed, Conrad.”
“Yes, Mama,” said the child, and scampered out of the room.
The woman put the potatoes in a pan and set it on the stovetop. Although her hair was already shot with grey, I guessed her to be no older than thirty. Her smile was welcoming, yet she had a wary look about her, like a dog that’s waiting to be kicked.