Moonrise

by Mitchell Smith

  He crouched, moving under hanging branches — and still seeing so clearly... seeing each leaf, each plant-stalk. In shadow beside an elm's rough trunk, he knelt and stared out across a wide clearing, brown-black with winter-killed grass.

  Only a bow-shot away, three things were eating — one tugging a loop of blue-white intestine from something in the grass. Yanking, tearing it free. There was a man on the ground — a tribesman, Bajazet could see tattoos down his arms amid the blood. A tribesman still alive, though certainly dying. His hands, his arms were raised out of the grass as if to push the things away. Bleeding hands.

  Then one of the eaters bent to the man's head, and bit into it like an apple. Baj heard the sound.

  He knew them, knew what they were, though these three — gone feral — wore no harness, no saddles, and their bare mottled skin was scarred by weather and woods-living. They were Boston's riding-creatures, massive, human-headed, four to five times the size of a man, and womb-twisted into huge, squat, four-footed mounts. Bajazet had seen them many times along the boon-docks, ridden by New England's merchants and officials, the creatures' legs grown heavily bent for a springing gait, their arms and hands turned to long fores ending in flat, calloused, broad-fingered pads.

  One of them — the one that had tugged free a portion of the man's gut — chewed that and swallowed. It raised its great round head (a head almost perfectly human, gray hair grown shaggy, tangled), sniffed the air, then turned to look across the clearing.

  There was no question but it saw Bajazet kneeling in shadow.... It stared at him a long moment with wide, idiot eyes a light shade of gray or blue, then smiled and stuck out a flat bloodstained tongue. Stuck its tongue out at him like a naughty child. Bajazet ran, still clutching bow and arrow. A poor, staggering run, but the very best he could do. He ran back through the trees, then up into the hill's undergrowth, listening... expecting to hear great swift four-footed paces coming behind him.

  But there was only silence, except for the breezy sounds of an end-of-winter afternoon. Silence when he stumbled to a stop at last by a red-berry bush, bending exhausted, a cramp in his left side.

  He caught his breath, then shouldered his bow, quivered the arrow, and hurried on across the brow of the hill — still going east, though making a wide half-circle around the feeding beasts.

  As he went, tripping now and then when he glanced, fearful, behind him, it seemed to Bajazet almost a wished-for thing to find a file of cavalry and their furious king, caught up and waiting to kill him, so his death would at least be in human company.

  CHAPTER 3

  Late in after-noon, walking, then trotting unsteadily, then walking again to struggle through underbrush, Bajazet supposed his flight — to someone resting in a warm room after dinner, with a copybook on his lap — might seem a suitable subject for epic poetry. Poetry of a sort. Treachery, murders for a crown, a young prince fleeing through forest... meeting monsters. Might very well be a poem, if dirt and desperation, if eating insects were left out of it.

  Bajazet recalled Lord Peter — the old librarian peacefully dead and River-buried later in the same year — recalled him smiling after reading Bajazet's epic, skip-rhymed triplets on Kingdom River's flow through history from Warm-times onward. At seventeen, Bajazet had imagined himself a romantic figure, a duelist poet, and bound to be fatal to the ladies.

  "I've read worse," the Lord Librarian had said, "— and I've read better, poems made with longing and love, rather than pride in a great stack of rhymes, almost all of them beside the point." Most of the old man's teeth were gone, so his th's, tongued off his palate, sounded odd.

  Bajazet, having expected praise — even astonishment — had stood in the library goggling at the insult.

  "Of course," the old man had murmured, "— of course, if you believe me mistaken, you'll wish Queen Rachel to read this. There is no one with better judgment of writing's worth."

  Bajazet had envisioned killing the withered creature by hitting him with the heaviest possible copybook off his shelves. Failing that, he'd said nothing, turned to stride out of the chamber in dignity.

  "Prince Bajazet."

  "What?" He turned back at the door.

  "You asked me once about your First-father...."

  "Yes, I asked once — and was told nothing."

  The old man had shifted on his high stool, his bony behind likely no comfort. "Answers, like questions, have their proper-times. Do you wish to hear about him now?"

  Bajazet had wished to tell the time-dried mummy to go to Lady Weather's hell of storms unceasing, but found he couldn't. He'd stood, listening.

  The old man had smiled at him, gums almost toothless as a baby's. "As you know, I tutored the Khan Toghrul through his boyhood at Caravanserai.... I was fond of him, and found him brilliant beyond all others, though crippled."

  "Crippled...?"

  "Yes. By the necessity to dominate all within his reach, and to extend that reach absolutely. It was a hunger in him, insatiable — and ruled his life as completely as he ruled others. But for that sad hunger, he would have been the greatest man of our age, superior even to the king."

  "The king beat him."

  "Yes, Sam Monroe defeated him — but only barely, and in alliance with Middle Kingdom. The king has never pretended he was the khan's equal in battle, has never pretended his success against him was not more a matter of good fortune than genius.... And in that admission — its self-knowledge and sense of proportion — is revealed all reasons why he is the Great Rule's king .. . while your First-father is gone into history."

  "But, what was he... what was he like?"

  "Ah..." The Lord Librarian had closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. "Toghrul — as a boy, a young man — was serious, but also humorous in a somewhat chilly way. Absolutely confident. He was slender — as you are. Handsome — as you are. But much older for his years; the boy in him quickly vanished. Still, some of those close to your father, loved him; certainly the old khan loved his son, though he seemed puzzled by him on occasion.

  So, Toghrul was loved by some, but feared by everyone but his father, one or two old generals, I suppose... and of course, your mother."

  "My mother..."

  "I met the Lady Ladu only twice, and in passing — once on a path through the summer garden's brief beds of pansies and so forth. She was short, sturdy, and rather plain. Kipchak chieftains tend to be hawks — their ladies, partridges. She was no beauty, except for her eyes — your eyes, now. Eyes at first black, then seen to be the dark gray of evening. She was said to be very gentle.... And of course, soon after your father's death, was murdered, with Chancellor Razumov, for sending the infant-you out of Ek-Tam's reach."

  Bajazet had tried to speak... say something, but found he couldn't, as if the library's warmth, its grumbling stoves, were smothering him.

  "Murders," the old man said, "— that among others, decided the king, your Second-father, to go west, defeat that general, and see him disemboweled at Map-Oakland."

  The Ancient had smiled his gummy smile. "I know, young lord," he said. "— I know it's easier for me to speak of these things, than for you, a boy, to hear them." Another teetering adjustment on the high stool. Couldn't be comfortable for him. "And I know something more — two things. First, you will be at best a competent poet. And second, your First-father's strength and your First-mother's gentleness will always war within you, and to your benefit."

  Bajazet had cleared his throat, and said, "Thank you."

  The old man had nodded, and lifted the poem's pages. "— And this? To the queen... or the stove?"

  "Keep warm," Bajazet had said, "— dear and honored sir."

  "Keep warm." A courtesy and blessing now poorly returned by Lady Weather, since it began to rain. An end-of-winter rain, but cold, and drifting in soaking curtains through the woods. — Uncomfortable, and lucky, destroying his tracks and his scent for the hounds. It would mean some difficulty and delay for the king's men.... Bajazet unfastened his b
ow-string, coiled it, pushed it down into his pack, and tucked the quiver's soft cover up and over the arrows' fletching.

  Then he climbed on through wet woods, water dripping from his cloak's hood, soaking it at his shoulders and down the front. The rapier and dagger sheaths were packed with oiled sheeps' wool; it would keep the steel a good while, even in wet weather — though it was hard to imagine the weapons as useful, should Boston's feral creatures have decided to follow.

  ... By evening, he heard voices calling that he almost recognized, voices barely heard above the rain, the steady patter of water dripping from the trees. He heard the voices, and knew it was a bad thing to be hearing them. There were certainly no familiar voices in the woods.

  He looked for things to eat — chewed a while on a leather lacing from his shirt. He looked for mushrooms, for an animal to kill, turning in slow circles sometimes, before walking on... and was glad when darkness came, so he could look no longer, and be disappointed.

  He stopped walking in a little brambled clearing, out from under the dripping trees. The rain gusts felt better than that constant dripping. He took off bow and quiver, pack and weapons, wrapped himself in the cloak — cold and soaked heavy — and lay down to sleep. Soon, it seemed the rain was a warm rain, lulling, protecting and hiding him.

  He dreamed of flying — flying in rain, but that rain cold and blowing, making flying difficult. Dreamed of that, and was pleased it was too dark for hawks to hunt him, too wet for owls.

  ... I'm up Shit's Creek. With that so-ancient Warm-time phrase scribbled across his mind, Bajazet woke drenched and shivering to the last of dawn's fog, the beginning of a bright and sunny day.... I am up the creek. Which left only the question of troubling to stand, or not. Putting on his pack, shouldering bow and quiver, buckling sword-belt on... or not.

  To lie starving seemed oddly too much trouble, too full of shame and sorrow, so — gasping, unsteady as an old man — he climbed to his feet, staggering under the sodden cloak's frigid weight. He stumbled in half-circles to pick up and sling his pack, bow and quiver — arrow fletching soaked — and with some difficulty, managed the buckle of his weapons' belt. Damned thing...

  Ready, sure he'd left nothing behind, he started away, bent under his wet cloak's weight. Had to wear it, of course; the wool would warm him, even wet. Had to wear it...

  Bajazet started up-slope, the thud and jingle of swift pursuing cavalry on his mind. The king would be riding silent, saying nothing, perhaps remembering his son's toddler days.... His officers would be silent as well, afraid of him. And out in front a Warm-time mile, foresters — trackers in the mottled green of Lady Weather's short-lived daughter, warm-hearted Summer — would be trotting bent, searching by Confusion's shallow water... the woods along the way. And finding confirmation enough.

  Awkward shuffling steps were the only ones Bajazet could take as he climbed the apron of an eastern hill. Strides and jog-trotting were as unlikely for him as flight. He imagined coming to some improbable canyon that would bar the way of cavalry and a relentless king, but allow him to stumble past.

  "Imagination," he said aloud, then imagined he was being watched. To the right, the narrow creek rattled down, elbowing stones. To the left, brambles and brush... several evergreens, now.

  He thought he might be being watched from behind — some forester having gone running at the chase's start, running ahead of all others, seeing a capful of gold, a grateful king's tears of thanks and satisfaction. Even an estate, perhaps, in the Clearings in Map-Tennessee. Tribal serf-girls, Finches or Mockers, to come sullen to his bed... then, after a while, calling out, baring their filed teeth in sudden pleasure.

  Bajazet stopped and turned to look back. His hand was on his rapier's hilt — a gesture only. Any strong man, well fed, could come to him now and knock him down. Then take him to such a grateful king... and the avoiding eyes of cavalry officers as he was hung by his heels to be carefully skinned, then rolled in a patch of salt brought from the shores of the Gulf Entire.

  Bajazet stood watching the way he'd come... and saw only morning's sunny woods, the light of a warming day flashing diamonds off raindrops still hanging in the branches.

  He turned to walk again — and saw beneath a bare bramble, the eye, small and brown, that examined him.

  He was almost certain what it was as he leaped for it — a convulsion of speed and strength that surprised him while still in the air, cloak flapping. A small thing — a young rabbit, frozen still by the ancient command of the best thing to do when come upon. And stillness had been best, before discerning man.

  Bajazet got his left hand on it — hooked its downy brown fur. Grabbed it as it tried to squirm away, late, an age too late.

  The brambles scratched and tore his face and forearms as he fell into them, the little animal kicking in his grip. He rolled free, holding the rabbit up. It struggled, peed in terror as he fumbled for his dagger.

  The slender steel was out, and Bajazet knelt trembling in haste, and cut the little creature's throat. Its soft muzzle opened as he killed it... then skinned it with blade and teeth, licking blood, spitting out soft tufts of fur.

  Groaning with impatience, Bajazet snapped flint and steel into a handful of his tinder, added shreds of underbark, and knelt puffing for a hasty fire. Its minor flames then only used to dip bloody pieces in — meager meat, frail bones, a small damp gout of bowel. All dipped into the fire as for a short blessing, then devoured as Bajazet, trembling, wept like a child for the little creature, its smallness, innocence, and sudden dreadful death. He ate, tears tracking down his dirty face, then chewed bloody scraps of fur, chewed and splintered the last tiny bones.

  Finished, nothing left but indications on bloody ground, he lay curled on his side in the sun for a sudden snoring nap.

  ... And woke, perhaps only a glass-hour later, to a different world. A world of no half-heard familiar voices, no aching belly, no stumbling or dizziness. In this richer world, that seemed now as complete, as promising as once it had been, he got to his feet with no grunt or groan of effort.

  He stamped his small fire out, gathered his goods, turned uphill and strode away. In this warmer, brighter world, it seemed possible he might live longer... might travel and travel — surely shoot an unlucky deer, a wild pig or two — and after several Warm-time weeks, even reach the Ocean Atlantic, beyond the grasp of the most revengeful king. Gareth Cooper could not, after all, chase forever.

  So, the little rabbit's life, its reluctant gift, seemed to have renewed his.

  He climbed the hill's sloping shoulder fairly fast, his sodden cloak slowly drying on his back. Climbed until he reached a bare rock knoll, scrambled up it... then stood to look behind him down a landscape of valley unfolding from valley, woods along the watercourses just beginning to green into spring. Bajazet felt the oddest longing for the River, many miles west and out of sight, though he supposed its silver might still be seen from these hill's highest crests.... Since he'd come to it as a baby, pursued even then — carried from Caravanserai by a Kipchak bowman and his wife, to save him horse-trampling under Lord Ek-Tam's execution carpet — ever since he'd come to it, the Mississippi had flowed through his life, had always been near enough to ride to in half a day, as if always waiting to offer its current's infinite strength for him to lean on.

  Standing, watching west, he saw something very small and bright in forest at the foot of a hill, a winking sparkle — certainly off Light Cavalry's sand-polished mail.

  Likely only a troop, no more; the king would want swiftness in the chase, not some trundling array. The horsemen would be in skirmish order, as hounds and woodsmen ranged wet woods to recover his trace.

  ... The glitter faded into green. At that distance, Bajazet had seen no pennants, no banners, though King Gareth's red ensign would be there. They'd have stranger hounds with them, now, and foresters promised much if they tracked him — perhaps promised death if they didn't.

  Bajazet climbed off the knoll, and — trotting, then
walking, then trotting again — traveled as if the eastward slopes were level ground, and fear was feast enough, with every strength to give him.

  That night, drowsing by a small, guarded fire, he heard distant trumpets — or the distant echo of them — sounding Sleep... sleep, you weary soldiers.

  A beautiful call.

  * * *

  Through the next day to evening, the air grew colder with Lord Winter's northern wind — certainly one of his last.

  The wind gusted... gusted... then gathered strength along hill ridges to come at Bajazet whining like a wolf to tear his warmth away, so he staggered, his frosted breath streaming, cloak flapping as he bent to find shelter in blowing evergreens. There would be no fire; no small fire could live in that wind, and any larger might be seen by the hunters, roll smoke into the air to be noticed for miles.

  No fire. By full dark, wrapped in his cloak and curled close as he could crowd under a hemlock's draping branches, hands tucked under his buckskin jerkin and shirt-hem to warm at his belly, Bajazet felt his feet numbing in his boots.

  The wind's noise was a deep-throated humming roar as gusts came through the trees. It grew colder... a cold seeming deeper still when cloud-mottled moonlight filtered through the evergreen's foliage.

  Bajazet huddled, hugged himself, and shivered. It was odd how difficult it was to keep his teeth from chattering like a chilled child's. He thought if he could sleep he might be warmer — and tried, but the wind kept waking him . .. shouting in his ear, stinging, burning the skin of his face beneath the cloak's hood. The night grew still colder, perhaps as cold as Lord Peter Wilson had claimed the great void to be, that held the planets and the stars.

  It began to be frightening. Too late now to build a fire — to be marked or not; no fire but a burning forest could live in that wind.

  Glass-hours later — the wind still howling in moonlight — he could no longer feel his feet, his face. Then, Bajazet didn't wish to sleep, was afraid he would die if he did. Didn't wish it. Didn't wish it... but the cold drove him down.