Gods of Green Mountain

by V. C. Andrews®

  The wagons began to roll, with the riders keeping the extra horshets and puhlets corralled between the double file of wagons, as they urged them on to a faster clip.

  Ahead of the caravan was the huge barrier of stones piled by the outlaws in the night, and they were all racing pell-mell directly at it, even as the outlaws began to roll the boulders down! Several struck Sharita’s wagon, and bounced off, like rubber balls striking something unyielding…yet, if one of the huge boulders struck the running horshets, it would be another story. As Sharita watched, staring in fascination out of a wagon window, she saw Dray-Gon aim a long barrel-like thing at the stone barrier—the extinguisher! He splayed the burning light on the rock barricade . . and where it had been, there was now only powdery dust blowing in the wind, allowing the lead horshets to plunge on ahead, unheeded. The men driving the wagons and those on horshetback cheered.

  “Great shot, Captain!” Raykin congratulated from his seat on Sharita’s wagon.

  Then, from a higher hill just ahead, a mammoth boulder came tumbling, gathering force as it rolled, heading straight for the wagon in which Sharita rode. She saw Dray-Gon again take careful aim and fire. A sizzling flash of light, and the boulder was gone…but in its previous course, the boulder had dislodged smaller rocks and they came tumbling down, keeping all of the men riding atop the wagons busy firing and turning them into powdery dust. The outlaws hiding in the hills abandoned the avalanche attack as useless, and began to aim their arrows at the racing horshets pulling the wagons.

  It was then that Dray-Don called out, “Now is the time to use our alternate strategy!” Even as he spoke, he was picking up another type of weapon, and lying prone to take careful aim, not at an outlaw as Sharita expected, but at huge boulders high above their positioning on a shelf terrace. This weapon didn’t disintegrate the boulder into dust—instead the beam of fiery red light split it apart so that it careened down, taking other boulders with it, showering down on the hidden outlaws, and driving them out into the open where the men on horshetback could now use their paralyzing guns—which hardly seemed necessary now. The roar of the falling rocks almost drowned out the screams of the outlaws as they ran before the onslaught of rocks not meant to be used against them. A ragged man came running like crazy down from the hills, flailing his arms and legs so fast they seemed a rotating blur in his effort to escape a mammoth boulder that was sure to catch him. At the last possible moment, he took a quick glance behind, then dove sideways, rolling over and over and falling into a ravine—perhaps hurt, but alive.

  And now, that very same boulder was coming directly at the dual file of wagons! To use a disintegrating weapon now would kill the driver of the first wagon, and his horshets…Sharita drew in her breath sharply, almost paralyzed with fear when she saw whose wagon it was sure to strike—hers!

  Dray-Gon saw too the target the tumbling boulder was headed for, and leaping down from the wagon he rode, he sped across the open space toward the wagon of the princess, ploughing his way heedlessly through the spare horshets and the racing puhlets. It seemed that it took forever for him to reach her wagon; years it took to jump up on the seat beside Raykin, and use an extra whip to slap down on the backs of the horshets already galloping and blowing steam. “Faster! Faster!” he urged, bringing the whip down hard again, so the terrified horshets, seldom used brutally, leaped ahead with such vigor Sharita was thrown off her feet and fell to the floor. She fell in such a way that her leg twisted beneath her, and she screamed out with the pain, then lay there panting as the wagon bounced over rocks and ruts, almost jolting the insides from her, with each jar adding to the pain of her ankle. The pretty dishes in her cupboards crashed together and broke; her toilet articles pitched onto the floor and rolled erratically about, breaking as they collided with this or that. A rolling bottle of shampoo met with a flying jar of cold cream, and the collision sprayed a sticky goo all over the princess sprawled miserably on the floor. A battered doll that she had kept with her always since the age of two fell to the floor and shattered, and the loss of that beloved old doll brought more tears to her eyes than the pain of her ankle. She felt sick and ready to throw up by the time the wagon slowed to a normal pace, and Dray-Gon was coming in through the side door, laughing to see her sprawled so undignified on the floor.

  “Oh—what a sight you are, princess!” he mocked, standing with his strong legs spread apart, and his hands on his hips, apparently enjoying the humiliation she was suffering. Every inch of her disheveled appearance was thoroughly gone over by his eyes several times.

  In the rubble of her beautiful possessions, she glared at him, too angry to speak and make the effort to stand at the same time. Being the barbarian he was, he made no courtly effort to help her, just stood and watched as she struggled to stand, and then cried out, before she fell again. Despite her will, she began to cry, like a child, certainly not the way a princess should behave in the presence of someone so detested. Then, even worse, she was really wailing…

  Dray-Gon went and knelt at her side, sober-faced now that he knew she was hurt. Tenderly he slipped an arm under her shoulders and another under her knees, picking her up and carrying her to the bed, where he laid her down gently, and skillfully felt her bones to see which one was broken.

  “It is my ankle, damn you!” she flared when his examination became too complete.

  “Nasty temper you have, princess,” he replied calmly, and then jeeringly: “Why didn’t you speak up sooner?” Insinuating in such an insulting way, Sharita reached her hand out for something hard to hurl at him. He laughed as he seized her wrist and used enough pressure to force her fingers to release the object. “Behave yourself, princess,” he said in the tight-lipped, soothing, indulgent way one speaks to an unruly, spoiled child that really needs a slap that is being held back with great restraint. “If you are a good little girl, I will go for the one doctor we have—and for your sake, I hope he is a good one.”

  Of course he was a good doctor—her father had seen to that! But Sharita couldn’t speak; the pain of her throbbing ankle gritted her teeth together. Benlon, a slight man with remarkably gentle hands, came and examined her ankle, and then taped it securely, and issued instructions for her to stay off of her feet and keep the injured ankle propped high on pillows. During all of this, Dray-Gon had stood silent in the background, not speaking until the young doctor was gone. “Now we have the perfect excuse to send you back to the palace, princess.”

  “No! If my leg were broken, instead of only a sprained ankle, I would still go on! And you, Captain, can carry me back and forth to my horshet until my ankle is healed—since it is your fault I fell anyway!” Frowning, uninvited, Dray-Gon sat on the side of her narrow bed. “Sharita, I am serious. This is no journey for you to make. You call me a barbarian, a savage, but you have just met up with real savages. You heard what those outlaws said they would do if you fell into their hands. And incidentally, I saved your life. But for me that boulder would have crashed into your wagon and turned it over—there was a precipice on the other side which you may not have noticed.”

  “Raykin is a perfectly capable driver,” she snapped back angrily. “Your trouble is you want to take the credit for everything. Now leave my wagon, Captain, for in here, I am still above your station—and in here, I give the orders!”

  He stood up and backed out, and at the door bowed to her in mock humility and obeisance. Hardly had the door closed behind him when Sharita was weeping—not because her ankle hurt but because she was dependent on him! She was acting so hateful and unappreciative, and she didn’t know how to stop without giving him the impression that she was backing down in weakness and defeat, in the way of most women confronted with a male’s strength.

  It was only then Sharita realized she hadn’t yet had anything to eat; she was still in her nightclothes, and hadn’t so much as combed her hair, or washed her face. And now she was lame, handicapped, and had no one to do anything to assist her—except men. Even Benlon looked at her as
a possible suitor and lover, and not just as a detached doctor. An unladylike curse escaped her lips, one just learned from overhearing the rough talk of the men when they weren’t aware she was listening. Then, partially amused with her awkward situation, she crawled from the bed, and on hands and knees, dragging her injured leg, she set about washing herself as best she could, and finding clothes she could pull on. When she was dressed, and somewhat sloppily presentable, she gained her feet, and hopped about on one leg in the unsteady, rocking wagon, and made an effort to prepare breakfast.

  The wagon swayed unexpectedly to the right—and scalding hot water spilled to burn her sandaled foot. While she stared down in dismay at her burned foot, the wagon jarred to the left, and her just-prepared breakfast went sliding to the floor. In tears now, frustrated and helpless feeling, she sat down on the floor, scooped her food back on the plate, and ate it. Her meal was combined with dirt, cold cream, and shampoo, and yet she was so hungry, none of that mattered. Ruefully determined, she told herself she would endure whatever hardships lay ahead without one single complaint! Dray-Gon would not see tears on her face again! She would show him that a princess could have as much stamina as any servant girl!

  Then she was crawling about, picking up pieces of the broken clay doll, making an attempt to glue the doll together and make it whole again as if this were a matter of life and death.

  All during the day, no one came to see how she fared. No one offered to help with her lunch. No one seemed to care if she ate at all.

  By now the caravan of emissaries to speak with the Gods had reached the sands of Bay Sol, where the cooling machines in the wagons had to be switched on. The riders of the horshets were as hot, dry, and miserable as they had expected to be. The wheels of the wagons were broad, to keep them from miring in the soft sand, yet the wagons didn’t travel well, only slowly, ever so slowly. There was no need to send out scouts to find an appropriate place for spending the night, for the terrain all looked alike—barren, desolate, unwelcoming. It whispered of legends past; it screamed of today’s torments that would be delivered unmercifully. As soon as both suns were behind the mountains, night quickly descended. Settling down like a cold, unfriendly blanket of discomfort in a different way; snuffing out the burning heat; giving momentary relief only before shivering began. The heat in the wagons was turned on.

  “Let us use the roof and wheel shields, and make ourselves snug and cozy, and open the doors of our wagons so our animals will be warmed too,” suggested Dray-Gon to the men who crowded about him, awaiting orders. He glanced then at the wagon that housed the princess, and knew that tonight she was due to eat at another table, not his. “Let us join all our small tables together and form one large one, and all eat together instead of separately—that way, at each dinner, we can all enjoy the company of the princess.”

  This was readily, enthusiastically agreed on, and every man began to eagerly clean and refresh themselves, so they would be at their best when the princess made her appearance.

  Wearing his best uniform, Dray-Gon went to rap lightly on the blue door of the princess’s wagon. “Are you ready for dinner?” he called. She answered something in a weak way that he didn’t understand. So he opened her door and went in, to see her standing slouched by the door of her wardrobe, disheveled and trembling, her color pallid.

  “Whatever is wrong?” he asked. “Weren’t you supposed to stay off your feet—why aren’t you on your bed?”

  Sharita raised her drooping head, with her hair streaming wildly about her face, and looked at him with the wide, teary, and reproachful eyes of a hurt child. “I tried to dress for dinner…and my gown got caught in the wardrobe door, and I couldn’t free myself…and I’ve been caught like this for several hours…hoping somebody would remember I might need some help. Do you know what it feels like to stand for hours and hours on one leg?”

  He went and quickly freed her, then picked her up and carried her to the bed. He sighed heavily as he sat down and held her on his lap like the child she was acting now. “I left you alone because you always want to be so damned independent. Several times I started to come and see how you were making out, and I ordered the others to leave you alone when they wanted to check. So it’s my fault, and I’m sorry. We made a mistake in our planing. You should have a maid to wait on you, especially now.”

  “I don’t need a maid!” she almost wailed. “But I’m so hungry! I haven’t had anything to eat but a breakfast I spilled on the floor, and look at me, I’m an absolute mess!”

  So was her wagon, Dray-Gon thought, as he looked around and saw the clutter of broken dishes, and spilled food, and clothes she had dropped and just left. “We’re all eating dinner at one long table tonight,” he said as he picked up a brush and began to use it on her hair. “They’re waiting for you to make your appearance before they sit down to eat. So tell me what I can do to help you get ready.”

  “I’ve talked to you so ugly today—why do you want to help?” He shrugged. Then he brought what she needed and turned his back while she briefly washed her face and pulled on fresh clothes. There before him on a small table were the pieces of a broken clay doll—an old, old doll—the kind the ancients had played with. He sat looking at it, feeling puzzled that a princess of immense wealth would have with her such a shoddy toy, even if it weren’t broken. “Sharita, this doll here. I see you have tried to patch it together. Is it important to you?”

  She spoke from behind a screen where she was dressing: “That clay doll belonged to my great-grandmother, then my grandmother, my mother, and my older sisters. Now it is mine. And it has never been broken before. There is a superstition about ancient things handed down from one generation to another: as long as it stays whole, the family unit stays united, without a serious loss. I don’t want to be the one responsible for bringing unhappiness into our family.”

  “Don’t tell me that you, a sophisticated, intelligent Upper believe in such nonsense.”

  The princess came from behind the screen, where he could have watched her dress through a reflecting mirror, if he had been so inclined, and she looked as fresh and lovely as he had seen her in the splendor of the crystal palace, though her complexion was still wan. She looked at him, then at the shattered doll. “I believe in a great many things, Dray-Gon, not in the least being the legends that go along with old, old family possessions. I would sleep much more comfortably tonight if I could put back that doll together again, as it had been.”

  Dray-Gon stood up, and gathered the pieces of clay together, and wrapped them carefully in a cloth before he stuffed this into a large pocket of his uniform jacket. “I’m pretty good at patching up broken things. Let me try my luck with your doll.”

  She stood looking at him, trying to picture him in his wagon, along with the three others who shared the space with him, and he would have to explain gluing together a broken doll. The thought made her smile. “Thank you, Captain.”

  When Dray-Gon carried her out of the wagon and sat her in the chair at the head of the tables joined together, the nineteen young men stood and cheered. “Three cheers for the princess! May her sprained ankle heal soon!” One asked if he could wait on the princess the next day, and fetch and carry for her and do whatever else she needed, and then they squabbled, each one wanting that privilege.

  “There is no argument here,” Dray-Gon said from the opposite end of the table. “The king put me in charge of his daughter, and I will do all the fetching and carrying, as long as she needs it. The only man allowed in her wagon, except myself, is Doctor Benlon, and he isn’t to go in alone.”

  Disgruntled, the nineteen raised some objection, but they could all see the ring he wore on his finger, and a smaller silver one with a blue stone on the same hand. Sharita saw that ring too.

  All the men ate as hungrily of the ill-prepared food as did Sharita, for tonight she could eat anything, she was that ravenous. On that night, a stranger looking at them, all dressed alike, would have found it impossible to tell an U
pper from a Lower. Excitedly they talked back and forth across the table. “By the Gods, it has been one good day,” commented Arth-Rin, a plump, round-faced boy from the lower borderlands. “We wake up to bandits shooting arrows, hurling rocks, demanding that we give up our princess to be held for ransom—just as if we would do such an insane thing! Then we have an excellent chance to use our weapons! Did you see those laser beams slice those rocks? Then down comes the split boulders, and then the rocks falling smack on the outlaws! Then we have to run for our lives, before they smash us as well! And then we’re heading on to Bay Sol, where I never dreamed to ever go! I’ve never been so hot and miserable or tired in my whole life. And I’ve never been happier.”

  “You know, I feel the same way,” said another, this one from the upperlands. Everyone agreed this had been the most exciting event of their lives. Too bad they hadn’t run into warfars or some other dangerous animals. Now they had nothing but dullness ahead, just hot, dry, arid land with two burning suns, not much excitement in that. And the Gods, if they lived to reach them, would probably be bores. Dull old men, like judges in court.

  The princess sat and listened with amazement. They called this fun? She learned if she hadn’t been along, they would have enjoyed hand-to-hand combat with the outlaws, but they didn’t want to risk her capture. “You know, it just didn’t seem fair, us turning our highly scientific weapons on men with only bows and arrows, and rocks to hurl. Maybe on our way back, we can send the princess on ahead and fight in the old way, fist to fist.”