“It looks ok to me, chief,” said Peter, when he came closer. “It’s not that deep, or even that cold. But we have to be careful with our wagons and buggies. We don’t want to lose the wheels on the curbs, or our horses to break their legs.”
“Ok, folks! Take off your boots and your pants if you want to keep them dry. Little ones go in the wagons and buggies. Men with horses will go to the front and to the rare. Wagons and buggies go after the riders, those on foot behind them. Let’s move!”
Presley mounted his horse. It was a present from Mr. Welsh. The horses, for a change, looked well rested and their coats were almost shiny. They were well fed and old Welsh’s folks took good care of them.
Little Leo was watching him with desire in his eyes.
“Come here,” Presley grumbled. The boy came closer and Presley grabbed him by the back of his jacket, lifted him in one swift jerk, and positioned him in front. Leo gasped, but it was a cry of joy. Leo’s bird, however, protested with noisy squawks, for it couldn’t rest on the boy’s shoulder and then the raven made a few circles around them and settled on Presley’s shoulder instead. Presley thought they looked like a caricature and some people actually gave them a goodhearted laugh.
Presley looked around searching for Hope. She was in one of the wagons. She smiled at him through the rain. He smiled back. A long column of mounted horses, men and women on foot, wagons and buggies full of people, and more riders on the back, stretched through the pond. A few men guided the horses that pulled the buggies and wagons, holding their reins, making sure their safe passing through the shallow, murky water. It took them less than a half an hour of slow walk to reach dry land, about half a mile away from their shelter. Those who walked barefoot through the chilly water pulled on their trousers and boots, shivering from the cold. Everything went better than expected. It was still raining as they made their way towards a wide interstate highway, which was slightly elevated from the rest of surrounding terrain and, therefore, their only way out of the city. The rainfall was no longer intense, but they were still all drenched in no time.
“You ok?” Presley asked Leo.
“I’m fine, chief.”
“Are you cold?”
“No, sir. I’m not even wet. My clothes are good for this kind of weather.”
“Good. Where is your sister?”
“She’s with Miss Hope. I think she’s fine, too.”
Interesting, Presley thought. He noticed all kids older than five, who did not have their own mother, or other family member to take care of them, got attached to certain men or women, or couples, forming something that resembled families. And it seemed the kids were the ones who took the initiative of selecting their adoptive family, leaving those who were picked little or no choice in the matter—some of the folks even tried to escape this unexpected affiliation, but with little success. Presley wondered though, how the kids were able to decide about who to pick without as much as an argument or overlaps in preference. Were he and Hope picked by Leo and his sister as their foster parents? And when did that happen? Leo was always near him, since the time they found them, following him like a little dog, always asking questions and offering help. He accepted it as something natural and he suspected nothing until recently. But now, it became so obvious. He didn’t mind. He liked the boy from the first time he met him. He thought of him as a bright and brave little man, with a sense for responsibility and talent for resourcefulness. But was he ready to take on this role, to be a parent? Ready or not he would have to, he suspected. That was decided without his consent and he was bound to concur. It should not be so hard, he thought. The care for younglings was a collective effort, anyway. They cared for them all at the same time, as a group. But, kids needed more, he realized; they needed the affection of somebody specific, they needed to belong, to be exclusive…
“Leo?”
“Yes, chief?”
“Would you like me to be your father?”
“Only if my sister can be your daughter, too… and if Miss Hope will be our Mom.”
“Does your sister like Hope?”
“Yes. She likes her very much. I like her, too.”
“What about me?”
“What about you?”
“Does your sister like me?”
“She does. But she’s a little scared of you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know… Everybody looks at you with respect, obeys you and follows your orders, and I guess, in her mind, she thinks they are all afraid of you, so she thinks that she should be scared, too.”
Presley was amazed by Leo’s reasoning; he was only twelve years old. But then, he remembered that Leo took care of a bunch of kids, when no one else was doing it, so nothing the boy did or said should really surprise him.
He wondered would it ever be possible for him to be a parent. Him? He who had seen so much blood, who took so many lives, witnessed so much horror? He never enjoyed it. He was always cautious to never do anything illegal. He vouched to never be cruel. But he witnessed countless things; atrocities, rapes, executions, murders. And even though he was not afraid to come between victims and killers, and defend the innocent, time and again there were other occasions when he did nothing. So many times he kept his mouth shut, not because he feared confrontation, but because, at times, it seemed there was a real good chance he could lose his life—and he probably would have—over those who were doomed to perish anyway. Sometimes these memories haunted him. He could never atone or forgive himself. He was damaged, and he was not sure if he deserved to have a family of his own. He would never be able to forget who he was and what he had done. Yes. But these little ones knew none of that and their task was to spare them from ever learning what it felt like to live in constant fear.
“Let’s go forward to see how everyone is doing, shall we?”
“Yeah!”
The long column was moving slowly, meandering through the rubble of destroyed and abandoned motor vehicles or potholes filled with slush and melting ice on the road. The dribble of the rain was not strong, however steady, but on the south horizon, behind distant grey hilltops, there was a reddish, encouraging gleam. Perhaps it was a good sign; maybe tomorrow the rain would stop, and they would finally see the shining Sun? He was hopeful, even certain; sooner or later the Sun would shine again.
They marched all day long and, by late afternoon, they came to a suspension bridge, stretched above the wide violent river. Water touched its sides, occasionally overflowing the part of the bridge closer to the bank. The bridge was arched and they were not able to see if it was damaged or collapsed. Their scouts went all the way to the top. They stood there for a moment and then came back. Presley waited impatiently.
“We can’t go across. Part of the bridge is collapsed and even if it wasn’t the other bank is completely flooded. But I think I saw another, maybe a railway bridge couple of miles upstream. It looks intact. It could be that we should go back few miles and take that side road we saw on passing. Maybe that’ll lead us there.”
Presley did not want to take the entire party to a dead end, so he ordered their pathfinders to go forward and check if the side road led up to the other bridge and, only when they returned confirming the crossing was passable, would they follow. It was a combined railway and motor vehicle bridge, so they had no trouble crossing it, as it was covered with a coat of asphalt. Presley wondered why whoever collapsed the bridge downstream did not do the same with this one, and concluded that destruction of the highway bridge could be nothing but an accident.
It was already late afternoon and still lightly raining. Presley was concerned about spending the night out in the open. He wanted to take his people off the main road to some safe and secluded place. They took a narrow path that ran parallel to the road and then dwindled eastwards. Presley hoped the path would take them back to the highway they left for the collapsed bridge. He decided to send scouts forward early in the morning to confirm his assumption.
A couple mi
les down the road, just before he was ready to give command to retire for a night, their convoy was abruptly halted. The path was barricaded and an armed man appeared behind the barrier.
Chapter XI
You cannot pass!—the man behind the barricade barked. “Turn around and go away!” Presley came to the front of the convoy and stopped a few paces away from the barricade. Rain was still falling, and the wind was starting to pick up. He was tired, soaking wet and annoyed. Behind him was a long column of riders, wagons and people on foot, tired and wet too, hungry and cold, but two hundred fifty strong and this clown thought he could stop them.
“Hello partner! We were just forced to make a detour from that fallen bridge downstream and needed to cross the river. We had no choice but to come this way. We mean you no harm. Let us pass through and we’ll be on our way. Or, you could actually be of help and tell us how to reach the main highway.”
“No. My orders are clear. You’re lucky we realized you’re not Pongos. If it were just a little darker, we would have shot. Anyhow, nobody can use this road. It’s off limits,” he lifted his rifle slightly, as if he wanted to stress his words.
Leo’s bird flew over and landed on the peak of a half broken telephone post, making angry noises, as if cursing at the man behind the barrier.
“Look fella, the night is fast approaching and we need to reach some dry place where we can make a camp. We are in care of many children and we need to make encampment for the night, build a fire to keep them warm and feed them. Let us pass. We pose no danger to anyone. But I assure you; we can be very tough if we need to be. I don’t like to give threats, but I don’t like getting them either. Anyhow, do you really think you can stop us?”
“Maybe I can’t, but they can,” the man pointed to the back, towards the big boulders hidden behind a thick of trees. “I am just the messenger, they are the force. And well armed, too. It’s better for all, if you do as I say.”
“Ok,” Presley turned to Mike, who was standing next to him, mounted on the horse’s back. “Turn everyone around,” he said in a hushed voice. “Take them half a mile back, find some place for a camp and wait there. Chances are this will take a little while until we figure out how to pass these fellas. Maybe we’ll have to stay the night. Come back here with ten men, flank this barricade, but make sure not to be noticed.”
“Leo, you have to go with Mike. Go to Miss Hope. Now!”
“No. Please let me stay with you.”
“Listen to me boy, this is no time for an argument. Do as you’re told.”
“I am not arguing, sir. My raven is over there and I don’t want to leave without him. Just let me stay and…”
“What are you waiting for?” asked the man. “Turn around and go after your bunch.”
Presley waved Mike to leave. He let Leo stay, not having time to be angered by the boy’s disobedience. He studied the man, trying to read his expressions and mannerisms. He did not sense any hostility in the man’s voice, but determination. He noticed his angular jaw, his calm eyes and even tone, his slow, measured moves, and all he saw told him he had a soldier standing in front of him; a private or a sergeant, a man who did not think much, but did what he was told; following orders, always trying to do his best.
“Ever been deployed, soldier?”
“Thrice,” the man said with a ring of curiosity in his voice.
“Where about?”
“Bucharest… Middle East and Indonesia.”
“Discharged.”
“The Army called me to go to Turkey, but I didn’t feel like it, after what I saw in Jakarta.”
“Deserted?”
“You can label it that if you want… but I call it defection.”
“Good man… same happened with me.”
“Where did you serve?”
“I was in Bucharest, too, and in Lebanon and North Africa…”
“Didn’t like it?”
“Nah, especially when they started mixing us with the Pongos.”
The man did not say anything for a few moments, as if weighing Presley’s words.
“Well, it was nice chatting with you, but you should leave now.”
Presley expected to soften the man’s attitude with some soldier talk; hoping it would awaken a sense of camaraderie, but the guy was a real piece of work.
“I would like to talk to someone in charge.”
A few birds landed on the surrounding, leafless trees, making loud clamour.
“There is nothing to talk about. Everything worth saying is said. You have thirty seconds to leave before you give us no choice but to shoot.”
“I would not raise that rifle if I were you, and I suggest the same to your friends,” Presley said calmly.
“And why is that?”
“Let’s say that, by now, we also have some sharp shooters behind the trees. And they are really good. I’ve seen them in action. They can take you before you say squat and the first one to fall will be you.”
The man laughed, but was reluctant to raise his weapon any higher, scaning the tress behind Presley, trying to see if he was bluffing. More crows landed on the leafless oak branches, barking in protest. Leo’s raven landed on the boy’s outstretched forearm, croaking occasionally, as if it was conducting a black–frocked orchestra. A swarm of crows and ravens were coming from all directions, landing on the naked tree branches all around, making more noise by the second. The racket became almost deafening. Presley was as confused as the man behind the barrier was.
“What the hell is going on with these dreadful birds?” the man shouted.
“What is going on?” Presley asked Leo, under his breath.
“They are in conference,” Leo said, knowingly.
“Who is?”
“The birds are.”
The murder was moving closer to the lower tree branches, making it evident that they were closing in the distance between them and the man guarding the barricade.
“Conference about what?”
“They are deciding if they approve the actions of those men.”
“Which men?”
“Them.”
“Where did they come from, and why?”
“From everywhere. Gregory summoned them! He sensed that I am in distress and called for help.”
“You are joking, right?
“No, sir. I’m not.”
“But how do you know that this is what’s happening?”
“I don’t know how. I just do. Don’t you know what Gregory is doing?”
“Leo, you are making no sense. How could I know what a bloody bird is doing? Don’t tell me that you can talk with that bird.”
“We don’t talk. But I can understand what he’s feeling and he can…”
“Your time is up!” shouted the man across the barricade and lifted the gun, pointing towards Presley and Leo. The birds closest to him hovered over like a swarm of angry hornets, threatening to scratch his face and hands. The man, astonished, lowered his gun and the birds slowly calmed down, landing back on the nearest branches.
“What is going on? Who are you, people? What kind of devil’s trick was that?”
“Will you let us pass, or at least call up someone in charge?”
“No! You must go away. And who is that?”
Presley turned in his saddle and saw Professor Tagore approaching, mounted on a horse, or rather hanging there, obviously uncomfortable and frightened. He came to a stop, next to Presley.
“Hallo, gentlemen!”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I would like to ask you if Doctor Victor Nemyrof is among you good people,” Professor asked, ignoring the question.
“Who?”
“Nemyrof… Victor Nemyrof.”
The guardsman looked totally confused by everything that happened, but the mention of the name had a profound effect. He turned around and waved his hand to someone, and then looked back at Professor and Presley.
“Who are you? How do you know our Doc?”
“We are old acquaintances,” Professor answered casually. Presley was now just as confused, perhaps even more than the guard.
“Wait here. Do not move until I come back, you hear me? They’ll shoot if you try to pass this barrier.” He then rushed off, down the road, until he disappeared behind the trees.
“Who is this Victor fellow and how did you know you should ask for him?”
“I had a hunch, my boy. I had a hunch.”
“A hunch! Just like that, huh? It just came to you?”
“Honestly, I was just thinking and then remembered what Victor used to say when we were planning our defection: “Before all is over, I shall make my refuge in the mountains of central Kentucky, among my proud highlanders.”
“But, that name is Russian… what’s his business in the heart of this hillbilly mountainside?”
“Oh, it’s only a name. He is fifth generation Carimean, a Kentuckian, though still a pure Russian by blood. Look, it’s not raining anymore! We’ll take it as a good sign, shall we?”
The guard came back after a while, accompanied by a woman. She was about Professor’s age, small and thin.
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