Moonrise

by Mitchell Smith

  Baj labored along just behind — but kept up... kept up, while the boy, Errol, seemed to weave past and circle them all like a summer snake... disappearing, reappearing. He dropped back from time to time, apparently to scout behind them — then came wending forward to take a long lead, also apparently to scout. The boy's restless comings and goings, all the while Baj and the others were traveling fast, were unsettling in a way, reassuring in another. They were not pursued.

  The Daughter's short summer had come upon the hills; they were dappled, as the Mississippi's banks and coastal woods had begun to be, with the warm weeks' hurried dark greens and light greens that rested the eyes, though the trees' blossoms, the thickets' blooms still waited. So, though there was no easy going, there was beautiful going.

  "What are you looking at, looking around all the time?" Nancy had glanced over her shoulder, apparently an annoyed vixen, though with no brushy tail, no big ears to twitch. "— And what are you smiling at now?"

  "It's a pretty day," Baj said, slightly breathless, since they were almost-running up a considerable slope with laurel saplings always in the way. "— And why I was smiling, is my business." The saplings did make hand-holds.

  "You are slowing us," the Made-girl said, and had lisped the us, though not the slowing.

  "I am not."

  As if she were angry with him, though Baj couldn't recall being impolite — and she'd been kind to him before — the girl immediately went faster. She whisked up the rise to leave all of them behind, her dark leather pack bobbing, the sheathed scimitar snug at her waist... and disappeared over an outcrop of weather-splintered stone.

  Baj climbed faster, though it cost him, and managed to catch Richard and labor along beside him. The big Person, his double-ax strapped to his heavy, furred pack, seemed to flow over the stone... flow between the slender young trees where it seemed he was too large to go. He apparently was trying to whistle as he traveled along — his lips, black as a dog's, were pursed — though, perhaps because the mouth was odd, only breathy near notes came out.

  At the ridge, Baj was greatly relieved when Richard stopped to look out over rolling hilltops, the deepening valleys to the north and east. Shrugging his shoulders to settle his pack, quiver, and strung bow, Baj tried to take deep breaths quietly. A breeze, almost warm, drifted with new-summer odors across the ridge. Little insects, mayflies, ghosted with it, translucent wings glinting in the sun.

  Errol came sidling up behind them. A small strangled cony was tucked dangling at his belt.

  "When it becomes later," Richard said — and though no whistler, pronounced book-English as well as Baj had ever heard, and in a fine deep voice. "— When it becomes later, we'll find water in one of those hollows. As we do, so will animals."

  "Yes...?"

  "You have a bow. Then get us fresh meat to travel on. Horse meat's gone."

  "All right," Baj said, "— I can do that," and hoped he'd be able to. He was fair with the bow, a little better than fair, but so much of his hunting had been on horseback, and behind hounds.... It seemed the comfort of company brought responsibility with it.

  The boy, Errol, made a cricking sound with tongue — and as if that had been a signal, Richard was off again in a hulking bound down the wooded reverse. Baj galloped after him through whipping branches — running full out to keep from falling on his face and rolling down the mountain.

  In the hollow below, Nancy was nowhere in sight, and Baj — exhilaration fading as he scrambled to keep the Persons' pace — began to yearn for the end of this day, as he'd yearned for the ends of the previous two.

  But the after-noon seemed to stretch and stretch, as if the sun had slowed its run to match his weariness. There was only trotting through dark leaf mold and tangling vine, then climbing outcrops of rock to haul himself up through brush and saplings — bruised ribs still troubling him a little — then, over a crest, skidding down through more undergrowth, more saplings. His pack, sword and dagger, the quiver and bow all began to seem unfair, unnecessary, only foolish burdens.

  ... When it appeared there would come no evening, no night, but only day eternal, with sweat running into his eyes, and bleeding fingers — where the fuck were his gloves? He'd left them at the lodge more than a Warm-time week ago.... When effort seemed forever, unless he called to beg Richard for a halt, then at last the first of sunset's long shadows came sliding across the slopes, promising him twilight at last, and rest.

  Deep into the next hollow, Nancy stepped from such a shadow, startling Baj so he shied away and put his hand to his sword-hilt like a festival fool. In woods and under woods, by softening light, her sharp face seemed suited and less strange. "Water," she said, "— and winter-broken branches for a fire."

  "Meat?" Richard.

  "No animals, no sign now — though coyotes have come through."

  "Shit," Richard said, a perfect use of the copybook word. "We were spoiled, coming south as the deer and all animals were coming south with Lord Winter at their backs."

  "A thrown hatchet," Nancy said, "— would find a deer."

  Richard sighed. "Not in summer season. Unstring your bow, Who-was-a-prince, and let it rest."

  ... The bow, its limbs eased, soon leaned against a maple tree. The same tree where Baj also sat resting, his limbs eased in evening air.

  The boy, Errol, lay dozing beside him, while the cony, skinned — and looking very small, a blistered lump — rode a slender peeled branch over a little fire of fallen hardwood, chosen for thorough burning and little smoke.

  "We're between Sparrow country and Thrush country." Richard fed the fire a light ration, huge dark fingers deft with twigs and splinters. "— almost up into Map-Kentucky. And if the Sparrows owe us something, the Thrushes owe us less. The Robins, farther north, will owe us nothing."

  "Why stay in these tribesmen's hills at all?" Baj said. "Why not go east, into lower country and easier traveling, where there are farms — then north to the ice?"

  "One of us makes too much noise traveling, anyway." Nancy, sitting across the fire, smiled at Baj as she said it, apparently no longer angered by whatever had angered her. — Proof, it seemed to him, that no mixture of fox's blood, or any blood, could dilute a woman's to anything but a woman's.

  "I know I'm noisy through the woods — and I'm slow, and get tired. But I'll become quieter, and quicker, and soon I won't tire so easily."

  "You do well enough." Richard leaned forward to prod the roasting cony with a huge forefinger. "We stay in the hills, at least for a Warm-time week or two, for good reason. Boston finds information in the villages, and from farmers . .. ranchers in the lowlands, east and farther east to the Ocean Atlantic." He leaned forward, sniffed at the cooking meat. "Boston finds friends there, too, since the Guard is their only protection when the tribes come raiding down.... Though there are villages that the tribesmen leave alone. That all leave alone."

  "We'd prefer no pigeons flew to Cambridge to mention where we are," Nancy said. "Sylvia Wolf-General already knows where to meet us."

  "Wolf-General?"

  "She commands the First Regiment of the Guard," Richard

  said. "— Or did, when I served in it."

  "And has some wolf mixed in her? No offense___"

  Richard smiled his disturbing smile. "Better say she has some human mixed in her."

  "It's the Guard we seek," Nancy said. "But only those — so, carefully."

  "Boston-Patience to deal with the Shrikes," Richard said, "— and we, the Guard."

  "To bring harm to Boston."

  "Oh, yes, Baj. A final harm."

  "And if neither is persuaded to be with us — not those tribesmen, not the Guard?"

  Richard shook his head. "Then, Baj, the Shrikes will do to us... much the same as the Guard will do to us."

  "But if they agree — then to harm Boston how?"

  "How," Richard said, "is secret, and will be as sailing Patience advised us. She sews all together." He leaned to poke the cooking cony again, and Baj
saw he was drooling — clear saliva running down a half-furred jaw in glistening strands, making an odd contrast with the rich voice, its excellent book-English.... Considering that contrast, it occurred to Baj that traveling with fanged companions had its dubious side, best dealt with by frequent feedings.

  "There must be deer in these mountains. I'll try for one, tommorow."

  Richard rumbled an "Ummm..." of appetite.

  "If not a deer," Baj said, "— something." And looked up to see a look of gleeful amusement on the Made-girl's face.

  "He thinks —" Nancy giggled like a child.

  "I think what?" Baj said.

  "Nothing..." More giggles.

  "What?" Richard stopped poking the meager meat, sucked his finger for the juices.

  Baj gave the girl a let-it-go look — but she instantly betrayed him. "He thinks we'll eat him." Giggles grew to laughing, her sharp white teeth reflecting firelight.

  Beside Baj, Errol woke smiling at the sound of her laughter, and Richard's booming "Certainly a possibility..."

  Later, the big Person dug into his pack, set a small book aside, and brought out a little folding peg-chess set. "Do you play, boy?"

  "I play," Baj said, "and am not a boy."

  "Forgive me."

  ... But it seemed Baj was a boy, at least regarding employment of bishops, and ended the evening humiliated, after a desperate battle in which those nasty slanting pieces ruined him.

  "Oh, dear," Richard had said. "Bad luck..."

  So strange, it seemed to Baj, as he turned beneath his blanket, the ground's roots and stones soft enough for exhausted sleep. So strange to find this odd occasion, this odd company — frightening company in its way, and all of them journeying to no-doubt worse, to more knots in an already knotted cord of trouble. Strange to have some knots untied by nothing but laughter around a small camp-fire, then a lost game of chess.

  Still... a deer tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 7

  But the summer deer still winter-hid in deep forest, deep hollows between the hills. Lady Weather's daughter, tragic Summer, had not yet sung to lure them out into meadows.

  "I smell them," Richard said, at the perfect middle of the next day, lifting his head to test the breeze when they stopped to drink water, chew strips of the jelly underbark of birches. "— But not close."

  Baj supposed Nancy had smelled them also, but preferred not to say so. "If not a deer," he said, "then something else." They'd seen two black bears at dawn — but those at a distance, going south and away. And Baj, stalking around a beaver pond later, had approached in time for an animal to slap its tail on the water, and dive out of sight and out of reach of an arrow.

  Richard nodded. "Oh, in time, something else."

  Something else already gathered — five small song-birds — Errol had killed with thrown sticks. They hung at his belt like feathered decorations.

  ... The day was beautiful, with cloud-shadows mottling the mountains' soft green. Soft green, soft mountains — though becoming greater. They humped up high along the northern horizon, so low clouds lay draped at their shoulders, spinning out on the wind in misty sunshine.

  That beauty made better traveling for Baj, as if the country cupped him in green hands, drifting the warming perfume of growing things as he labored to keep up with the others — keeping up made easier, as he needed to mind only that, while his past and future napped like tired children, and were quiet.

  In after-noon, they wended down steep slopes where waterfalls came drumming, splashing over stone. These were something Baj had never seen — clear water churned to white water as it fell from heights, and fell heavily. He saw even Richard stagger as he went shouldering beneath the only one with passage after — and was instantly drenched so his furred pack, his own fur crest and the tufts down his long arms turned soaked and stringy as the big Person lunged out from under the fall, and found dry stone beyond it. He checked his pack and possibles — then shook himself like a wet hunting dog.

  Nancy went next, snaking under the bright, rumbling weight of water. She struggled through in spray.. . then climbed the rock beyond to find a lie of sunshine, and sit stripping wet from her scimitar's bright blade for fear of rust.

  Baj — his quiver's leather cover tied over — went through, and enjoyed it despite the icy battering the falling water gave him as he managed his footing beneath it.... In sodden buckskins, sloshing half-boots, he climbed across slippery stone to Nancy's boulder, and stood beside her, whiping water from his bow-stave... whipping rapier and knife blades thrumming through the air to dry them.

  "You greased that sword, Nancy?"

  "With horse-meat fat a while ago."

  "Not enough; you need to coat the steel." Baj dug in his pack, found his little cake of tallow only damp. "Use this — but be careful along the edge."

  She gave him the slantwise yellow glance he should have expected. "I don't cut myself, Who-was-a-prince."

  "Neither do I — never — but somehow I bleed, every now and then, handling sharp steel."

  Nancy said nothing to that, but bent over the scimitar's beautiful blade — an interesting pattern of descending dark bands marking the metal — and began to tallow it... but carefully along the gently curving edge.

  Baj sat, feeling muscles ease down his back and along his thighs and calves with a mild aching of relief. The Made-girl beside him smelled of soaked cloth and leather, of camp-fire smoke, and the faint sour odor of a fox's wet fur.

  Richard — looking only a little smaller, damp — lumbered swiftly past them, and continued along a stony slope, great ax swinging in his hand.

  "Go on," Nancy said, bent over her blade, and Baj had grunted to his feet when she said, "He's afraid of the water."

  Baj looked where she looked, and saw Errol dancing at the waterfall's other side. The boy ran forward to the toppling wall of water — stopped, and ran back as if it might chase him.

  "He won't do it," Nancy said, and stood. "He swims wonderfully, but fears falling water. I'll get Richard to come and make him cross."

  "No need. I'll get him." Baj trotted back down the stone, already wondering how to do it.

  "Careful!" she called after him. "Careful!"

  Baj, cautious on wet rock, dropped his pack, unbuckled his sword-belt, and ducked back under the fall's torrential weight. The water hadn't yet heard the last of winter; it was wonderfully cold.

  He came out the other side in a shower of spray, and saw Errol backing away as if he were bringing the waterfall with him.

  "Won't hurt you," Baj said, meaning he wouldn't and the fall wouldn't, but Errol — thin face pale beneath dirt and freckles — seemed not to trust that. He took more steps back, and drew a knife with his left hand. A broad-bladed knife, its steel flecked with rust... but the fine edge bright as silver. There were tongue-clicks; the boy seemed frozen, staring at glassy water toppling to foam and thunder.

  Nancy was calling... something. Baj could barely hear her through the noise of falling water.

  "There are moments," the Master had said once, in the salle, "— moments that must not be allowed to become more than moments. They're to be dealt with directly."

  Good advice, and though the Master had been instructing on booze-house quarrels and useful ball-kicking, it seemed to apply here.

  Baj unknotted his bandanna from his throat, shook water from it, then strolled up to the boy — ignoring the knife, careful not to notice it — stepped around behind him casually as if that had already been agreed to, then gently draped the cloth over Errol's eyes. The boy, blinded, stood still.

  Baj, standing close, felt wiry muscle ease... and exactly as he would have with a colt caught in a stable fire, began to murmur soothing nonsense, and gently urged Errol along. Urged him along... And though the boy stiffened in fright again as the wall of water poured before them, Baj kept his eyes covered, said, "Shhh... shhhh," and led him in, holding him close with one arm. They moved together, ducking, buffeted with freezing cold.... Then wal
ked out from under.

  Errol — standing sodden, his knife still in his hand — tossed his head exactly as a colt might have done, drops flying as Baj took the bandanna away, knotted it back at his throat, and went to pick up his pack and sword-belt, his heart still a little hurried.

  Nancy, her scimitar sheathed, pack shouldered, stared at him, said, "Careful along the edge," and walked away.

  * * *

  Harder traveling then, over rocky outcrops reared surprisingly high past narrow gorges carved from north and north-east by centuries of the short-summers' snow-melt.

  Errol had gone on his way, skittering off into stands of hemlock, fir, and stunted spruce grown leaning over granite ledges. Neither Richard nor Nancy waited for Baj, though he could see them from time to time — objects neither green nor granite-gray, and in purposeful motion. And not so far ahead, only a continual stone's throw or bow-shot across some shaded defile. When not seen, their traveling was told by warblers lifting from evergreens, or birdsong gone silent.

  For a time, annoyed, Baj tried to catch up with them... then, tiring of that, he paid attention to his own hiking instead. The rough touch and grip of fir saplings used for hand-holds, the damp sweet smell and stroke of foliage as he paged hemlock branches out of his way. The soft fern beds giving way to unforgiving stone beneath his boots. He paid attention to the pleasures of moving... breathing to move well, and after a while was surprised, on a long downhill, to find Nancy almost beside him, stepping down... stepping down, bent a little under the weight of her pack.

  He climbed down beside her — going sideways in steeper places for better footing with his boot-soles' edges. In those places, she went sideways, also, but on all fours, one or both narrow hands lightly touching the mat of pine needles, her comb of widow-peaked hair a darker red under the trees.

  Nancy's odor didn't seem so strong, now she wasn't wet. Perhaps some rankness had washed away — like his sweat — in the fall's cold water.

  "Your boots are stupid. Clumsy."

  "They are what I have," Baj said, and climbed beside her down a stand of fir to a run of yellow birches, just in bud, along a narrow mountain meadow striped by late after-noon's shadows. Big Richard was standing by a tree, waiting for them.