by Beatty, Cate
One Who Sees asked worriedly, “He Smiles, what’s going on?”
“Well, ma’am, that man over there insulted Isabel. I can’t let that stand,” Bash replied.
“Don’t blame it all on me,” Isabel interjected, “I suppose the fact he called you a cheater has nothing to do with it.”
“As an old playwright once wrote, ‘If a man has not honor or a good woman,’” Bash countered.
Joan could tell he had been drinking.
“All right, time,” called an old man, wearing a top hat and holding a pocket watch.
Bash’s opponent walked to the center of the square. He was huge—a full foot taller than Bash. One Who Sees and Joan were taken aback at the sight of the large man, and they looked questioningly at Bash.
“We were sitting down when I accepted his challenge,” he whispered to the women.
One Who Sees warned him, “You can’t do this.”
“I have to play the cards dealt to me, my dear.”
He then turned to Isabel, “A kiss before battle, mi amore?”
He grabbed Isabel. One could describe it as almost manhandling her. He wrapped one arm around her waist, pulling her close. With his other hand, he grabbed her throat, holding her chin and forcing her face up to him. Their lips touched. He bent her body backward, and his kisses moved down her neck. Joan felt embarrassed to witness this scene, as if intruding upon an intimate moment. She wanted to turn away, but didn’t. She was captivated by them, and she thought of the kiss she didn’t have with Duncan.
The audience hooted and catcalled. But Bash and Isabel were oblivious to them, to the shouts, to the impending fight, and to the world. For them at that moment, only the two of them existed. Then, just as quickly, they broke apart. The crowd cheered.
Bash, overcome with love, with looming disaster, and maybe with drink, gushed, “Isabel, you are my love, aren’t you? Isabel?”
Joan picked up Bash’s flask from the ground and eyed him.
“In vino veritas,” he told her, with a sly grin. In wine, there is truth.
Isabel understood him. “Arch, you know how I feel, have always…” Isabel had known Bash on and off for almost ten years. They would meet up often on their journeys. During that time they slowly—intentionally—became close, and she developed strong feelings for him. However, she didn’t pressure him. She knew of his past and the reasons for his aloofness. Still, every time he moved on, her heart sank a little. But she was focused and self-sufficient, and she would move on as well.
Now, she pulled him to her. Her hands she wrapped intensely around his neck—squeezing, almost choking. Their lips disappeared together, like butter and oil melting as one on a sizzling pan over a hot fire.
The giant grumbled, “Come on, lover boy.”
The two broke apart.
“So, what’re the rules?” Isabel asked to all.
“No rules in a fist fight,” the giant growled.
The old man in the top hat banged two tin cups together, and Bash and the giant began pacing around each other. Bash started with two quick jabs to the man’s abdomen. Nothing. No reaction. The giant let loose with a left hook to Bash’s face, sending him flying backward. Bash moved swiftly, dodging the giant’s swipes. He swayed back and forth. At one point Bash ducked low to the ground, kneeling and trying to stay out of arm’s length of the giant. He was not always successful, as the giant’s fists met Bash’s face countless times. Finally, the old man clanged the tin cups together to signal the end of the round.
Bash came back to the women. One Who Sees wiped the blood from his face.
Isabel left for a moment. Then she came back, “Well, I have some good news and some bad news.”
This brought a smile to Bash’s bloody visage, and he raised his gloved hand to touch her face. “Good news first.”
“He broke his right hand on your face,” Isabel informed them.
Bash smiled and uttered through his bloody lip, “My strategy’s working. And the bad news?”
“He’s left handed,” Isabel said, “and he’s got a heck of a left hook.” She tended to his bloody nose.
Joan had been studying the giant’s technique.
“Bash, listen. He drops his left hand just before he pulls it back for his hook, and his feet are off-balance, right then. Try to hit him then, when you see him drop his left hand. But hit his face. Don’t bother with body hits. They won’t work,” Joan advised him.
Bash looked at her skeptically.
“Trust me,” Joan assured him.
“And for a little more help,” Isabel said, “give me your right hand.”
Bash held up his gloved hand, and Isabel shoved small rocks into the glove, up over the knuckles.
“No rules, remember?” Isabel smiled and winked.
The tin cup sounded, and Bash headed back to the giant. Ducking and weaving for a minute or two, Bash let the giant grow weary of trying to hit him. Bash saw it as Joan explained. The giant dropped his left hand and started to pull it back for a hook shot. Bash pulled back his right, and let fly an elegant right hook. The giant was off-balance, and he stumbled, trying to maintain his footing. Bash kept returning, his right and left hands pummeled the giant’s face. The man fell to his knees and froze for a second, while Bash paused. Then the goliath collapsed forward, flat on his face—out cold.
Later that night Joan tossed and turned instead of sleeping. She couldn’t get the sight of that kiss out of her head. The few kisses she had shared with Reck were never like that. When she did fall asleep, she dreamt of Duncan.
Dr. Jules Chin added a little more cream to her iced coffee. It was a hot, humid summer day, and her clothes were starting to stick to her.
Sitting on the outdoor patio of the café, she made an effort to sip the drink and began flipping through the pages of a newspaper. To anyone watching, she appeared to be reading, but in reality she kept scanning the immediate area, looking for anything out of place.
After finishing most of the drink, she glanced at her wrist phone. It was time to return to the medical center. As a new resident, she didn’t get long breaks. Folding up the newspaper, she left a tip for the waiter, stood, slipped her purse over her right shoulder, and walked away. The newspaper lay on the table. She didn’t look back.
Jack casually stood up from a table at the same café. He barely glanced at Chin, but he did notice her purse hung on her right shoulder. He walked by her table, as he headed for the street and discretely picked up the newspaper when he passed.
It wasn’t until Jack returned to the Fitness Center and locked the door to his office that he opened the newspaper. This was the third time Dr. Chin and he had performed this ritual. On the first inside page, he began searching intently. There it was—a number, hand-scribbled into the newsprint: 5. He turned the page and saw another number: 3. He repeated the search for the next five pages and found seven numbers in total: 5311997. A donor’s number—a donor soon to be arrested and taxed for a major donation. Tonight he would get word to the underground, and hopefully this donor would be smuggled out.
29
Joan walked to Bash’s tent to find Reck, hoping to go on a morning walk with him. She found Bash, sitting on the ground and resting against his saddle. Isabel snuggled in next to him.
In his hands he held a book and read to a group of children, including Crackling Fire. He stopped as Joan approached.
“Miss Joan,” he greeted her, smiling. His eye was still swollen from the fight.
“Looks like the swelling’s getting better.”
“Indeed,” he replied, and then turning to the children, “We’ll read more later.”
“Don’t stop,” Crackling Fire protested. “We want to see what Long John Silver does.”
“Later, you urchins. Go on, shoo!” he sent them on their way.
As Crackling Fire left, he paused and said to Bash, “How come you call Lionheart Joan? Reck does too.”
“It’s another name.”
“
What’s it mean?”
“I believe it means ‘merciful.’”
Crackling Fire looked at Joan. “Yes, that’s Lionheart.”
Turning to Joan, Bash said merrily, “Please pull up some soft dirt and sit down.”
“I didn’t know that,” Joan said, referring to her name.
Isabel stood up. “He’s a regular encyclopedia. All he does is read, hija. You should see the books he carries around with him.”
“An old pre-Impact writer, name of Mark Twain once wrote: ‘Good friends and good books make the ideal life,’” Bash countered.
“Coffee helps, too. Coffee?” Isabel asked, holding up her cup.
Joan nodded, “Love some. We just drink tea at my tent.” She motioned to the departing kids and commented to Bash, “They enjoy hearing your stories.”
He plopped the book down next to him, “Books are just ink and paper, but they come alive when we read them. And then they stay alive in us.” He held up his empty cup to Isabel as she walked to the fire. “I shall partake, as well.” He stared at Joan thoughtfully for a moment. He spoke even slower and more protracted than his usual manner of speech, “Perhaps many things from our past can stay alive in us.” Clearing his throat—and his mind, he spoke quickly, “So, what brings you to the outer reaches of the camp? Looking for Reck?”
Joan nodded.
“He’s not here. He went with Arrow Comes Back. He’s endeavoring to learn the art of the hunt. I think the young man wants to impress you,” Bash winked.
“He’s got a crush on you, you know?” Isabel came up, cradling three cups of hot coffee.
Bash took a cup, “Gratitude, my dear.” Turning back to Joan, “Yes, ma’am, he’s trying to get Arrow Comes Back to teach him shooting. I guess you’ve been teaching him, he tells me. But, well, between the trees and us, he was surprised to find you so adept at archery. I think he was embarrassed.”
“You have to watch out for that male ego,” Isabel smiled.
“And as I discovered the other night,” he motioned to his swollen eye, “you are well acquainted with hand-to-hand combat. I owe my victory to you.”
Joan shrugged, “I had to learn that stuff—archery, shooting, kickboxing for…” she said, hesitating a moment, but lately she could talk about that part of her life with greater ease. “For my benefactor. I didn’t have a choice in the matter. It was the System. I had to have strong muscles for the same things she needed them for—in case I had to donate.”
Isabel shook her head. “I don’t understand how the Alliance could treat its people that way.”
Bash narrowed his eyes intently at Joan, “But you never told Reck what you did? That you learned all this?”
Joan shook her head, indicating she hadn’t. There was a lot she hadn’t told Reck.
Bash stated, “Well, now that he knows, he says it’s a good thing you’re well-versed in the arts of self-defense. That it’ll come in handy when the two of you join the Resistance.”
Joan said nothing. She didn’t want to talk about the Resistance. Bash regarded her a minute, studying her. “He says, anyway.”
Joan still remained silent.
“He thinks quite highly of you,” Bash continued. “Talked about you all the time on our trek together.”
“I like him, too,” Joan admitted.
“He recounted to me tales of all you did.” He took a sip of coffee and uttered with a wily smirk, “You’re a better man than I am, Gunga Din.”
Joan looked at him quizzically, “What’s that mean?”
“Oh, please don’t ask him, hija. Never ask him,” Isabel advised, rolling her eyes.
He pulled Isabel to him and kissed her cheek.
“Don’t try to kiss your way out of it Arch—”
He moved to her lips. Joan looked away, embarrassed.
When he pulled away, he winked at Joan. “What it means is: how brave you are.”
Joan started shaking her head, but he interrupted, “I’d already seen the poster of you and heard the details of your astounding escape, but he told me that prior to your escape, you tried to save—”
Her past was forcing its way into this happy life, invading her security. “No, I’m not brave,” she said with enough irritation in her voice that Bash held up his hand, as if to surrender.
“I certainly didn’t mean to insult you. Bravery, heroism… those are overrated. Frankly, Joan, I equate bravery with stupidity.”
“This coming from a man who fought a guy twice his size the other night—for honor,” she argued sarcastically.
“You’re proving his point,” Isabel said.
Anger sneaked into Joan’s voice, “I’ll just go find Reck.”
She got up to leave.
“One moment, Joan,” Bash called.
He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a small, weatherworn book.
“For you,” he held it out to Joan.
“Jane Eyre,” Joan read the title. “Not familiar with it.”
“No. It’s most likely proscribed by the Alliance.”
“Thank you.”
The book was stained with water and had small tears on the cover. She opened it to the first page. Scribbled in a youth’s scrawl was “A. Bash.”
He bowed his head to her, saying, “I hope it speaks to you.”
Joan repeated, “Thanks. And, sorry, I didn’t mean to be testy.”
Bash waved his hand, “No mea culpa necessary. One last thing, though, Jack employed me to convey all of you to Seaton—to that Lucas fellow. I told you and Reck I’d wait here for your friend—this Mr. Kaleb—but I cannot remain here for an unlimited period of time. Time is money. We’re going to have to leave soon.” He had watched her over the last month. In his eyes flashed an understanding of her and of her relationship with the Children. He asked with genuine concern in his voice, “You going to be able to do that?”
Joan didn’t respond as she walked off. She found Reck, practicing with the bow and arrow. As she approached, an arrow flew errant, slamming into a tree somewhere off to the left.
“Darn,” Reck uttered.
“You’ll get the hang of it,” Joan consoled him. “Let’s go find it.”
“I’m getting worried about Kaleb. Shouldn’t he be here by now? It’s been a month since I got here,” Reck said, as they looked for the arrow.
“If Jack said he’d get him out, then he will,” Joan assured him. “There it is.”
It was lodged in a branch, out of reach. Reck lifted Joan to get it. Reck is strong, broad shouldered, and masculine, she thought. The feeling of his hands tight around her waist brought Joan an intermingling sensation of pleasure. She grabbed the arrow, and he slowly lowered her to the ground. Their eyes passed, their lips passed, and he didn’t let go when she touched the ground.
“Joan,” he whispered, his breath wafting on her skin, tickling her nose, and delighting her. They stayed that way. Then Joan impulsively pulled him to her, to her face, and to her lips. Her hand lingered at his collarbone. Joan tried to open her heart and let her senses abandon their resistance. In truth her heart felt safety and security. There existed a familiarity between the two. They shared a common past and similar experiences, and that intimacy and ease had grown into love. At least that’s what she tried to convince herself.
30
One breezy afternoon, Old Owl sliced root vegetables outside the tent as Joan sat down next to him. Quiet Snowfall climbed on him and picked up the food, playing with a potato.
“That’s our food, not a toy,” he admonished the little girl. “Careful, this’s a sharp knife. Ah, my back, get off.”
“Want me to take her off of your hands?” Joan offered, as she tickled Quiet Snowfall.
“I don’t need any help. Where’s your man?” he blew at feathery seeds, floating on the wind.
“He’s not ‘my man.’”
He shrugged.
“What’s that supposed to mean? That I don’t lov—”
“These seeds
,” he interrupted, as he brushed his hands at the fluffy seeds. “I guess it’s the season.” He became wistful. “I wonder where they came from. They travel on the wings of the wind, the very breath of the earth.”
One landed on his hand, and he held it up to analyze it. “It’s survived gentle breezes and strong winds, all to find its way here. It’s alive, here in my hand, but it hasn’t reached its fullness. It, alone, must decide where to land, what earth will nourish it, and what will protect it. In turn the seed gives strength to the earth. It’ll make the earth solid and resilient. They each give something to the other.”
Quiet Snowfall jumped into his lap, and with a smile on her face, she blew the seed off his hand. It twirled above him, around the tent, and out of sight. Walking from the same place the seed had just floated to, Arrow Comes Back and Reck approached them. Reck waved his hands in front of his face to blow away the seeds.
“The army is here with some Black Shirts,” Arrow Comes Back informed her. “They say they have a message for you, about a friend of yours. Crooked Arm says it is up to you whether or not you wish to speak to them.”
“Black shirts?” Reck questioned.
“He means TEOs,” Joan explained. “Captain Nox, probably. I told you he was here before. I’ll go.”
She spoke with strength in her voice and stood.
“The same two Black Shirts from last time,” Arrow Comes Back said, as he began to walk away.
Joan stopped. What was Duncan still doing out here? She didn’t need his help anymore.
Joan, Reck, and Arrow Comes Back strode up to the circle of men sitting under Talking Tree. Joan wore a dress in the fashion of the Children. Hugging her body tightly, it was light brown and comprised of thin, very supple leather. The neckline came down to a v-neck, accentuating her chest. The leather around the sleeves, the neckline, and the hem were colored in a green-blue stripe, appearing as if she were framed. She seemed relaxed and confident, like a flower gently blooming in the soft sun.