A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds)

by Colegrove, Stephen

  The two men pushed Wilson into the chair and tied his arms to a metal loop in the seat. His ankles were bound to the wooden legs. The small tribal lit a candle then dumped Wilson’s gear on the table and left. Wilson pulled against the rope but unfortunately it was quality hemp from Station.

  A few minutes later the door creaked and two tribals entered. Gunmetal hair covered the shoulders of the first man like a mane. Around the graybeard’s neck hung the biohazard symbol, a silver pendant of gleaming, sharp rings. Thick with muscles, the second man scraped the top of the door frame as he stooped to enter. The black ring symbol marked his right cheek. Several long knives were sheathed in his belt and he held a two-shot pistol.

  The younger man closed the door and waited while the other tribal sorted through Wilson’s gear. The graybeard mumbled with interest at a few items, including the firestarter.

  “You can’t treat a guest this way,” Wilson said in the dialect.

  The graybeard turned and slapped him hard in the face.

  “You know Anglan. Speak it!”

  Wilson’s face stung but he kept the ruse going.

  “What is … Anglan?”

  “Liar!” The old man stabbed a finger at the cross around Wilson’s neck. “You can’t hide that stupid accent or your stupid Anglan god.” He went back to the gear on the table.

  “I found it on a dead man. How should I know what it is?”

  The old man held Wilson’s hunting knife to the candlelight. “No one else makes such knives.” He leaned closer. “Admit it and I’ll let you keep an eye. Are you planning to attack?”

  The graybeard waved the knife in his face and a bead of sweat rolled down Wilson’s nose. The room became oppressively hot.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  The old man noticed the dried blood on Wilson’s left sleeve. He untied the rope around Wilson’s wrists and removed the leather bracer. The white bandages underneath were spotted with blood. He re-tied Wilson’s right wrist to the metal loop. The old man left Wilson’s bandaged arm free and simply held it on the wooden arm of the chair.

  “I’m done playing games,” said the old man.

  He poked at the bandages with the point of the knife, tenderly at first, then deeply. Wilson jerked with pain and tears rolled from his eyes.

  “How about now?”

  “I’ll talk,” Wilson said, only half-acting. “I’m from a large village to the south. We’re all Anglan. When our brothers called for help we came.”

  The old man folded his arms.

  “I was scouting ahead of the main group when your men caught me,” said Wilson.

  “How many?”

  Wilson cleared his throat. “I need water.”

  “Don’t waste my time!”

  “I haven’t had water for a day! If you want me to talk–”

  The old man waved his hand. The big tribal left the room and closed the door after himself.

  “How many men?”

  “Fifty.”

  The old man cut the bandages with the knife. He played the point around the bite marks.

  “Really?”

  “Yes!”

  The old man jabbed the point deep into the arm and Wilson howled. Through a blur of tears he tried to control his breathing and use the calming trick.

  Breath made of ice

  Breath made of water

  Breath made of fog

  Calm my heart

  The pain in his arm quickly turned to ice from the inside-out. The old man was more interested in finding a new spot for his knife than his prisoner’s change in breathing. He continued to hold Wilson’s wrist and leaned closer to look at the scar on the inside of the forearm.

  It was a fatal mistake and over in seconds. Wilson shot his left hand forward to break free and grabbed a blade from the old man’s belt. He stabbed up into the graybeard’s soft throat then dodged left and right as the old man gurgled and slashed weakly with the hunting knife. At last he collapsed, blood bubbling from the hand at his neck.

  Wilson cut himself free with the small blade and stepped around the body. He strapped on his belt and stuck his knives in it plus the old man’s blade. His pistol was missing. He took a second to grab his backpack and whatever was in it.

  He burst out the door and ran headlong into the big tribal. The man grabbed for him but Wilson dodged and ran for it. Something hard smashed into the back of his head. He dropped to his hands and knees and his eyes swirled with black spots. The pounding in his head matched the patter of footsteps.

  Feet kicked at Wilson and he protected his head. Tribals yelled and spit at him, more by the second. He blocked the kicks and tried to stand up, then heard a woman’s voice.

  “Ne tus li!”

  An older woman waved her arms and yelled more warnings in the dialect. Two giant tribals in green tunics pushed the crowd away.

  Wilson got to his feet slowly and kept hands at his sides. The older woman walked toward him. Her gray hair was split harshly into a pair of braids and she wore a green robe the same color as the two giants. Like the old man, she wore a silver necklace of interlocking rings.

  “Who are you?” she asked in the dialect.

  “No one important,” said Wilson.

  A woman screamed inside the small hut. The older woman left to investigate while the giant guards stood over Wilson. She returned quickly and spread her arms to the crowd.

  “Marcus is dead,” she shouted.

  Most danced with glee but a few gave Wilson looks of grim hatred. A handful of women and children wailed and ran into the hut.

  “You should have been brought to me,” said the older woman.

  Wilson searched for the right idiom in the dialect. “So you could have the first bite?”

  The woman tilted her head. “You speak strangely. Where is your spirit-home?”

  “Far to the west. My name is Wilson.”

  “Wilson from the west, I’m Flora. I will treat your injuries at my home.”

  “Can’t I just leave?”

  “No. You’re my property. Fight the rest of the village with those wounds or come with me.”

  Wilson was still dizzy. He touched the back of his head and his fingers were covered in blood. The journey had drained his energy and now a huge crowd surrounded him.

  “I’ll come with you,” he said.

  “Wise boy. There’s only one problem––you’ve killed a member of the tribe, one with a strong spirit-weight. You can’t enter the village until you pass before his family.”

  Wilson sighed. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

  “You may not see it and it may not be a good one, but it always exists.”

  “I understand. I’ll pass before the family.”

  His knives and gear were taken and he was stripped to the waist. Her fingernails black with dirt, an old crone painted foul-smelling red symbols on Wilson’s back and chest. A group of tribals carried the wrapped body of the dead man to the village.

  In front of the wooden gate stood two parallel lines of tribals with two meters of space in between. The men and women held clubs and long sticks wrapped with leather.

  A stout tribal with onion breath led him towards the line of people. “Walk slowly like a man and give us a show, you filth. If we’re lucky they’ll kill you.”

  Wilson stepped between the first pair and clubs smashed into his shins and belly. He used the calm-trick and kept walking, a blank expression on his face. The second pair of blows cracked him on the side of the head and he fell flat, his eyes full of black sparkles.

  “Not on the head, you inbred sons of rat-vomit!” spat the old crone.

  Wilson got to his feet and took clout after clout as he limped to the end of the line. He was bruised and covered in blood, but hadn’t said a word. A few of the tribals watched him with embarassed respect.

  A boy guided Wilson to a house and a dark bedroom. Strange objects lined the walls: rusted gears, valves, and metal parts. He washed the b
lood from his body at a wooden basin. He used a strip of cloth to bandage the lizard bite on his arm then crawled under a sheepskin blanket.

  HE WOKE IN THE dark, confused at the unfamiliar bed and strange smells. Everything fell into place after a few seconds and he threw off the sheepskin.

  The wooden door opened outwards. A bored tribal leaned against the wall in the narrow hallway. The two-shot pistol in his hand pointed at the floor.

  “This way,” said the tribal.

  He prodded Wilson to a larger room. In the candlelight Wilson saw a low, square table circled with cushions. On the table were wooden plates, spoons, and a setting of dried flowers. The guard pointed to a cushion and stood in a corner with folded arms.

  Wilson looked at the old paintings on the walls. One was of a street scene, another a farm with explosions of bright flowers. He’d only seen paintings in books, never in person.

  “Do you like it?”

  Flora stood in a doorway. She’d re-done her hair into a long wave and wore a purple robe. It made her look twenty years younger.

  “I’m talking about the painting,” said Flora

  “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen any before,” Wilson said.

  She plopped onto a cushion with an exhausted sigh. “I’m not surprised. They were very difficult to find.”

  “They’re beautiful. But why do you collect them?”

  Flora smiled. “I don’t know if I can answer that question. Why does a cat chase a butterfly?”

  “It wants to catch it.”

  “Does it really? Have you watched a cat? It loves to play, to hunt. It is the same for people. The enjoyment of life is in the chase of these things––finding but not having. Like a cat, the having of things quickly bores me.”

  “Am I the butterfly or the cat right now?”

  “Now the butterfly, tomorrow the cat. Do you know this saying?”

  Boys entered the room carrying trays of steaming food. Wilson filled his plate with corn cakes, beans, and rice.

  “What’s the name of this place?”

  “We’re the Lago people. Your spirit-home is David, from your speech.”

  Wilson shook his head.

  “Then where is it?”

  “I said before––to the west.”

  “And you speak Anglan?”

  “All of us grow up speaking it. Only a few know the tribe-voice, but I am scienculo. My role is to speak tribe-voice and to read–”

  Flora’s eyes widened. “Read!”

  “Everyone can read in my spirit-home,” said Wilson.

  Flora moved the rice around her plate with a spoon. “A village of this kind in the mountains … I’ve never heard of it.”

  “We don’t like visitors.”

  “Your words remind me of the Circle man. He said he came from far to the east.”

  “This Circle is a village in the east?”

  “It’s a big tribe, with more than one village. We send slaves to them for weapons and healing powders.”

  They finished the meal in silence. Flora pushed away her plate and pulled two wooden pipes from her pocket.

  “Leaf?”

  Wilson took the pipe. It was similar to the ones back home. He packed a thumb-size of leaf into the barrel and lit it with a candle.

  Flora blew smoke puffs. “Reading is a remarkable skill.”

  “Remarkable or not, I’m your prisoner.” Wilson coughed from the smoke.

  Flora inhaled on the pipe and let the smoke curl from her mouth.

  “You’re spirit-home is not David or you would know about prisoners and slaves. Men and women are taken while traveling or in battle, then traded. We capture a few from Westcreek, they capture some of our scouts and we parlay our men back, trade-for-trade. We’ve had many parlays the last few summers. The man you killed––Marcus––hated all of that. His followers raided David and likely planned more secret killings. They would burn Westcreek and David to the ground and turn their people into slaves.”

  “You want something different?”

  “I want peace. Sometimes that comes in war, and sometimes in parlay.”

  “No one will parlay for me. They don’t even know I’m here.”

  Flora smiled. “Marcus is dead, but his followers want blood. You’ve stopped them for a moment but they are strong-headed. So you can’t stay here and I can’t lose face by letting you leave.”

  The leaf was making Wilson dizzy. “Let me sneak away. At night.”

  “No. Too much danger of being caught. What I will do is trade you, life for life. Westcreek is a village to the north. A few days ago I parlayed slaves to them for captured hunters. My spies tell me they take these slaves to Circle on the half-moon, which is tomorrow. Bring back the slaves and I’ll give you freedom.”

  “I suppose I have no choice.”

  “You keep saying that, Wilson. You can hope for parlay but it will take time.”

  “How can I bring the slaves back by myself?”

  “I’ll send men with you.”

  “The same ones that want me dead?”

  Flora shrugged. “Hard men respect strength. Show it during the raid and I can free you.”

  Wilson couldn’t tell if it was the leaf or what he’d been drinking, but he felt a strange tingling in his fingers and toes.

  “These hard men will stick a knife in my back,” he said slowly.

  Flora blew a swirl of leaf-smoke. “Don’t be a child, Wilson. Our men are bears. They will stab you in the heart.”

  HER PIPE FINISHED, Flora left to organize the raid.

  Wilson washed himself at the wooden basin in his room and meditated with the calming trick. It numbed the pain from his injuries.

  A tribal brought his gear and the stolen pistol. He cleaned everything and sharpened his knives. The crossbow needed an adjustment but he didn’t have the tools. Wilson took another painkiller. He used a sterilizer packet on his wounds and changed the bandages.

  He waited in the lantern-light in front of Flora’s home. Tribals in hunting gear slowly formed a group nearby. Some gave him the stink-eye. Eventually Flora and a female servant appeared and passed cloth bundles to each man.

  “Change to these on the trail.” she said to Wilson. “Don’t ask why.”

  She handed a cup full of black liquid to everyone in the raiding party. Wilson drank the hot and bitter mixture in a few gulps. It smelled of licorice.

  “Listen!” Flora raised her voice. “Lagos!”

  She held a lantern and peered at the face of each man. “You’re the strongest and the fastest in this village. You hate Westcreek. Your slaves serve food at their tables while they laugh at us. They’re laughing at our parlay. Can you feel it? Can you feel them laughing? You’re going to steal our slaves back and kill many Creeks. Their wives and mothers will shed tears in Westcreek tomorrow, because of you!”

  Flora dipped her left hand in white paint and the right in black. She placed her hands on the cheeks of each man, including Wilson, and waved farewell.

  The seven tribals and Wilson set off in the dark. A short tribal with sharp eyes set a blistering pace from the front. Wilson was glad for the painkiller and wondered what he’d do when it was all gone.

  An hour into running along forest trails they stopped for a break. Wilson sat against a tree, his body covered with sweat. His hands rested on the weapons in his belt as he watched the other raiders. Three of the men who’d given him the worst looks talked for a bit then walked to Wilson.

  He hadn’t noticed another pair creeping behind the tree. They grabbed his arms and jerked him up.

  “What–!”

  The tribals took away Wilson’s knives and pistol. The tallest leaned down and Wilson smelled rotting meat.

  “You took my father’s life, I take yours. Life for life.”

  “He was going to kill me,” said Wilson. “A trapped dog bites anyone.”

  The tall tribal spat on the ground. “Are you a child? We don’t kill prisoners, we send them to the Ci
rcle.”

  “How was I supposed to know?”

  “That’s not my problem. My father is dead and you’ll serve him in heaven.”

  The tall tribal walked to a small clearing and stripped to the waist. Red scars crossed his lean-muscled chest. The others pulled off Wilson’s jacket and shirt then pushed him forward. Wilson knew what to expect when they gave his knife back and the tall tribal pulled out a foot-long blade. He flexed his free hand and whispered the calming trick as other raiders surrounded them.

  When he opened his eyes the tall tribal jumped at him. Wilson dodged a feint and stab. They circled, stabbing and pawing like cats. Wilson was smaller and faster. He kept out of reach to try and wear down the bigger man. He still caught a slash across the back of his arm and a rock-hard punch to the kidneys. At last he used a double-leg feint learned from the hunters at Station and sliced the back of the tall tribal’s hand. The tribal dropped his knife and Wilson grabbed a thumb and pushed it to the ground. The tribal squirmed in the leaves and tried to pull away but Wilson’s knife was at his throat.

  “I’m sorry your father is dead,” said Wilson. “Parlay?”

  “Parlay.”

  “I won’t kill you. Trade your life for my spirit-debt.”

  The big tribal grunted and Wilson let him go. The rest of the group seemed satisfied with the result. Wilson took his knives and pistol back.

  After more hard travel they stopped to change clothing. The outfits Flora had given them included a brown shirt, red sash, and a wide-brimmed black hat. On the upper chest of each shirt was a cross.

  Dawn brightened the sky as they came to the ambush point. A dirt path ran through the forest along an east-west ridge. Near the feet of the raiders it turned north and descended through a steep ravine.

  The tribals untied out the other bundle they had brought and pulled out the head and skin of a mule deer. They filled the skin with dirt and arranged it down at the trail.

  Two men were sent east and west to scout quietly. Three of the raiders spread out below the lip of the ravine and buried themselves in piles of leaves and brown spruce needles. Wilson and two more went to the other side of the ravine and dug in beneath the roots of a half-fallen tree.

  Time passed. A gentle wind flowed from the north. Wilson watched squirrels chattering and jumping through the spruce and fir trees. He ate some fruit and dried meat and drained a water skin.