Fallen Stars, Bitter Waters

by Gilbert, Morris

  “You’re hurting my arm! Where did I get what?”

  “That brooch on your beret. Where did you get it? Did you steal it?”

  “No, I did not steal it! Let go of me!”

  David was suffering one of those uncontrollable rages that had taken him only twice in his entire life. Reason seemed to have flown, and he knew his hand was biting into the woman’s flesh.

  Pain was reflected in her eyes, but she refused to back down. She stared up at him defiantly.

  “This is my grandmother’s. What did you do to her?” He reached out and jerked the beret from her head, staring down at it in anguish.

  The eyes widened—even in David’s anger he noticed that they were an unusual shade of blue-gray—and she cast a cautious glance over her shoulder at the people waiting in line and especially at the other two commissars who were watching curiously. She hissed, “Keep your voice down. Are you David?”

  Stunned, David could only nod.

  Her square features hardened, then she whispered furiously, “Kiss me.”

  “Wha—wh—”

  She mumbled something again under her breath, then threw her arms around David and planted her lips on his, hard, but only for a brief moment. Then she hugged him and whispered in his ear, “Play along, David. You have to. I can take you to your grandparents, but we’ll have to slip away.”

  David, who was not much of a covert ops expert, stood still and wooden as a bowling pin. She drew back, then turned to wave at the two male commissars, who were grinning. “Can you cover for a little while, Bryce? I’ve got some unfinished business here.”

  “Sure, Xanthe. Looks like you’ve got some order to impose over there.”

  She made a quick, ironic sketch of the fist-pound-heart salute, then grabbed David’s arm in a viselike grip and turned him around almost bodily. “Walk, David. You can walk, can’t you? Listen to me. I can take you to your grandfather and your grandmother, but we have to sneak out of the city. There’s no way that I could allow anyone to know where they are.”

  “Yeah? And what was all that production back there?” he blustered.

  She gazed up at him, her eyes steady now. “They don’t need to know that I’m helping your grandparents. It wouldn’t be— healthy—for me.”

  David was instantly suspicious. His jaw hardened, and he said, “All right. I’m walking. You talk. What’s your name?”

  “Xanthe St. Dymion.”

  David followed her until they had gone down a side street and moved into an alley. There she stopped, ostentatiously let go of his arm, and turned to face him. “I would appreciate it if you would give me back my beret. Your grandmother Noemi gave me that brooch, and so it now belongs to me. Do you believe me?”

  David was studying her. She was, he guessed, around twenty-five and was of average height. She wasn’t chunkily built, but she looked strong, her body firm. Her man-cut hair was an indifferent brown, and she was not pretty, except for her eyes. They were almond shaped, that mysterious smoke-and-mirrors color, and framed by perfectly arched dark brows. He sized her up as he did most people, in one phrase. Capable, very quick, not very feminine.

  “I don’t trust you,” he said.

  “That’s good. You’re showing sense. Don’t trust anyone. But give me back my beret and my brooch. Then I’ll take you to your grandparents.”

  By the time David had pedaled the bike to the top of the steep hill, he was panting. They had been riding for four hours, and he discovered that the woman was better on a bicycle than he was. She had explained almost nothing, except that she had made friends with Jesse and Noe at church, and she knew exactly where they had gone. He demanded no more. Suddenly he saw that she was looking back at him with a slightly amused expression.

  Xanthe observed that David was awkward on a bicycle. “Time to take a break,” she said, not thinking that she sounded as if she were ordering him. But he allowed it with only a slight grimace.

  David must have really wanted to get off that bicycle.

  They parked their bicycles beside an empty field filled with dead grass. David and Xanthe walked aimlessly, stretching their legs and arms. Xanthe saw him rubbing his rear gingerly. “What’s the story with that bicycle seat anyway?” he muttered darkly. “New torture device, especially designed for the Commissary?”

  “No, I think they’re supposed to be ergonomically correct,” Xanthe told him.

  “Yeah, well, my ergonomic hurts,” he said, his face softening but not quite breaking into a grin.

  It was the first break she had seen in David Mitchell’s stern face. He was built as a man should be, six feet tall, muscular but not bulky. She studied his spiky sandy hair and expressive blue eyes, envying the long, thick lashes. Now that he had lost some of the tension, she saw that he was probably a relaxed, easygoing man when anger did not overcome him.

  Xanthe had never had much luck with men, and David Mitchell was exactly the kind of man—attractive, competent, easy with his masculinity—that she could never seem to attract. She had had sad experiences with unworthy men, and as a result, she had adopted rather curt, mannish ways to cover up her insecurity. “You want to rest more?”

  “No, I want to get to my grandparents ASAP.”

  She shrugged carelessly.

  They rode all day, stopping only to drink water and once to eat one of David’s MRE’s. Xanthe ate gritty, bland creamed corn and a slab of alarmingly pink mystery meat with eagerness. David, who could hardly swallow the tasteless food, watched her, feeling a stab of guilt. Food must have been scarce in Hot Springs for the past few weeks. In contrast, it seemed that he and Fire Team Eclipse hadn’t had it so bad, after all. “I could have probably gotten us a deer,” he said lamely. “But I’m in such a hurry . . .”

  Her wide-spaced eyes lit on him with alarm. “You—you mean, kill a deer?”

  He nodded, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Yeah, My Commissar, that’s exactly what I mean. You gonna arrest me for it?”

  She stared at him, bewilderment plain on her stolid features.

  Then she replied evenly, “Only if you don’t share it with me.”

  “I’ll share,” he said. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  They rode until the shadows were growing long and the wind whistling down from the brooding heights of the mountains above them started turning icily cold. Gray clouds like tufts of dirty wool were moving in from the north, plodding slowly but inexorably along to cover the entire sky.

  Watching the troublesome signs, David moved up beside her bike. “I think it’s going to snow. We’d better stop and find a good spot with lots of firewood.”

  She nodded, casting an anxious glance upward. “I’m pretty sure I remember a place up on that little ridge just in front of us.

  It’s got a rock overhang and a flat shelf facing south. The woods behind it have lots of pines and some hardwoods, too, I think.”

  They reached the spot, and it was a good place, sheltered from the north wind, with enough of an overhang to sleep under. “I think we’d both better haul wood,” he said worriedly. “It’s going to get full dark pretty quick with that cloud cover, and we don’t need to fall and break a leg.”

  They gathered a good pile of wood, though Xanthe, who evidently didn’t understand the finer points of fire-making, hauled in a lot of pine that was still green. David started to explain to her that it wouldn’t burn very well, but she had worked so hard, so steadily, and without a word of complaint that he didn’t have the heart. He redoubled his efforts and picked up all the dry pieces of oak and elm he could find, even the smallest sticks. She obviously didn’t have a clue how to make a fire, but he quickly built it, pretending not to notice. By the time they had a good blaze going just under the rock overhang, it was already the dead of night.

  “Sorry I didn’t have time to get us some supper,” he said as she made coffee with David’s small tin coffeepot.

  “That’s—all right. It doesn’t matter,” she said brusquely.r />
  This time, he gave her an MRE of her own. He’d brought along about a dozen of them, hoping devoutly that he wouldn’t have to eat them. But they were very nutritious, about three thousand calories each. He suggested they share one at lunch only because he could barely stand to choke down half of the prepackaged, dried, processed, tasteless meals. She ate all of it, just as hungrily as she had at noon. When she finished, she delighted in the small soap, the package of gum, and the two cinnamon-flavored toothpicks as if they were her birthday gifts.

  “These things are great little kits to have,” she commented.

  “Uh—yeah. They’re great. More coffee? Here, let me . . . so, My Commissar, why did you decide to stay in Hot Springs instead of going to stay with my grandparents?”

  She sipped the scalding brew with appreciation, her eyes somber over the rim of the tin cup. “I’m not a high commissar. You know that, of course. You may call me Xanthe if you want.” She almost smiled. “Your grandfather couldn’t say my name. He just called me ‘miss,’ and then he started calling me ‘daughter’ . . . it was . . . nice.” As if she regretted revealing even this small piece of herself, she went on rather stiffly, “As to your question, it would seem that you, of all people, would understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “Understand the concept of duty,” she replied a little self-consciously. “It’s my duty to stay at my post and take responsibility for protecting this biome and the people in it. You’re a soldier. I’m sure you didn’t desert your post to come out here.”

  “No, I didn’t do that,” David said hastily. For some reason, it was important to him that she didn’t think that of him. “My commanding officer gave me permission to come here. And I’ve—” He started to say, I’ve got to try and gather some useful information, but he stopped himself. After all, Xanthe St. Dymion had told him not to trust anyone. “I’ve got to go back,” he finished lamely.

  She seemed to discern his discomfort—David wasn’t really very good at hiding anything—but she merely nodded. “Then you understand why I stayed in Hot Springs.”

  David said quietly, “Well, I’ve got another explanation.”

  She stared at him curiously. “What’s that?”

  “You’ll probably think I’m crazy, but I think you stayed there because the Lord gave you a mission.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, leaning forward intently.

  “Tell me.”

  “I believe—I know—the Lord wants me to find my grandparents. So you were there. If I hadn’t found you, the chances of my finding my grandparents would have been practically nonexistent.”

  “Maybe,” she said hesitantly. “I’m—I don’t—know or understand much about dunk—I mean, Christian things. Your grandfather and grandmother led me to the Lord and prayed with me, and I asked Jesus to come into my heart. But I still—don’t know much.”

  David grinned, and he looked years younger. “You’re doing all right, Xanthe. Those of us who think we know everything are in a lot worse trouble. You kind of remind me of someone, a friend I made, a friend God sent me to, out in the desert. He doesn’t think he knows much, either. But he’s one of the wisest Christians I’ve ever met, I think. He’s—special. And so are you. Maybe it sounds—uh—plebeian, but I think the Lord uses special tools for special jobs. I think He used you to help me.”

  A warmth came to Xanthe then as she finally felt assurance that she had done the right thing. “I think you may be right, except maybe you didn’t go far enough.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I mean, I think I have more work to do in Hot Springs. I believe that the Lord is telling me, or making me, or directing me, however it works, to go back and stay in the Commissary.”

  David said uneasily, “That could be very dangerous, Xanthe. I don’t think what happened in the autumnal equinox is the worst that’s coming, not by far. I don’t even think that the nightmare that the city’s in now is the worst . . .”

  A chill crept over Xanthe, and she shivered slightly. “Neither do I.” She remembered Jesse Mitchell’s words about the coming darkness.

  As if their bleak words were a signal, the snow began to fall. It was not fat, cheery flakes swirling; hard businesslike snow, wet and heavy, was instantly like a thick curtain. David tossed a sizable oak log on the fire, and the two shrank back into the shelter of the rocks.

  Both had the realization at the same time—their startled, then guilty glances met—and then Xanthe dropped her head awkwardly.

  “Well, My Commissar,” David said with false heartiness, “looks like it’s going to be cramped quarters in here.” The shelter was just big enough for two to lie down if they stayed very close together.

  “No. This—won’t work,” Xanthe said desperately.

  “Sure, it will. After all, we’ve already had our first kiss, shared our food, shared our fire. Relax, Xanthe. We’ve both got on about forty layers, and these sleeping bags are thick. Please, My Commissar, don’t make me crawl out and sleep in the snow. I promise to be good,” David teased her.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake,” she declared in her curt manner. “I’m certain you can manage to control yourself, even from my considerable charms. Let’s get situated. I’m getting cold.”

  They shifted and jabbed each other and squirmed and zipped and pushed, and finally Xanthe got settled on her side, facing the fire, her sleeping bag zipped up to her chin. David was lying on his side behind her. She was watching the flames, hypnotized, and was drifting a little and perhaps dreaming a little when she heard him faintly.

  “Xanthe?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You do have charms. Considerable ones.”

  Her eyes flew open, and she was grateful he couldn’t see.

  Behind her, again in that lazy, gentle voice, he said, “I don’t suppose we could try that kiss again? I didn’t do too good the first time around. I think I need to work on it.”

  Swallowing hard, Xanthe said, “I thought soldiers were supposed to go off to sleep just like that.”

  “Yeah, okay, I can take a hint. But if you reconsider, you know, about that kiss—”

  “David,” she said, a clear warning.

  “G’night, Xanthe.”

  She said nothing more. But for the first time that long, hard day, her lips were turned upward in a very small smile.

  She woke up, frightened, her heart racing, and sat bolt upright.

  David was already struggling out of his sleeping bag.

  “What is that?” she asked, her voice shaking.

  “Wolves. Lots of them,” he answered.

  He stood up, and the snow was still falling steadily. “Oh, man, look over there. Is that—could that be a wildfire?”

  Xanthe stood up, hastily pulling on her beret and wrapping a blanket about her shoulders. “That’s where they—the wolves’ howling— is coming from, isn’t it? David, a wildfire? In this snow? It’s got to be—”

  “People. In big, big trouble.”

  They said nothing more.

  They left their gear, throwing on their heavy jackets with hoods, and David reminded Xanthe as they ran to the bicycles to put on her goggles. They rode along the road, but then the road swung right, while the fire was burning at the base of a mountain in a direct line to their left.

  “That—that’s the mountain where your grandfather is,” Xan-the said shakily. “No, no—not right there. He’s in a cabin, up at the top, on the east side.”

  David and Xanthe let the bicycles drop and started toward it on foot. They ran when they could, though it was extremely dangerous to run over unknown terrain at night, and their visibility was reduced even more by the thick snow. But they hurried, never hesitating, and Xanthe easily kept up with David.

  Their view as they drew closer was obscured by thick woods and snarling undergrowth. They fought their way through it, and finally together they stood on the edge of a small rise that overlooked a clearing at the mountain’s foot.<
br />
  Two women and a small boy clung to one another, and they were almost standing in an enormous bonfire. Two men were brandishing sticks and logs. They were surrounded by wolves, at least thirty of them.

  “What are they doing?” Xanthe whispered, taking her 9 mm pistol off safety and chambering the first shell. “The wolves . . . they’re stalking . . . circling them . . .”

  Grimly David shook his head. “I don’t know, but the fun’s over. Shoot the pack leaders.”

  David leveled the shotgun and aimed at the most aggressive male. He pulled the trigger, and the wolf was knocked ten feet by the impact of the heavy slug. About half the pack left, but David, who advanced, saw that there were two pack leaders left and three distinct groups. One of them, a group of four, headed straight for him. Xanthe began shooting, but she was frightened half out of her wits, for she’d never shot anything or anyone before. She missed them all.

  David got off one more shot before the four were on him. He missed the leader, quickly turned the gun and bashed the wolf who leaped for him right in the head. The wolf landed on his side, shaking his head.

  Instantly one of the men who had been standing by the fire was there, savagely clubbing with the butt of his rifle, shouting. Finally the three wolves disengaged themselves, snarling and growling fiercely, and ran off.

  Riley Case was breathing hard. “Screamin’ Eagles to the rescue.”

  “Huu-ahh,” David said weakly, scrambling to his feet.

  The other man, who had been standing protectively over the women, came forward. David saw that his hand was out, and he almost was running toward him. Instinctively David stepped forward, his arms opened wide, and the older man practically fell into them. “A soldier! It’s a miracle, a miracle! Thank God! Thank God!”

  Gravely David said, “Air Assault, sir, and amen.”

  FIVE

  I ’M FINE. I can make it.”

  Victorine thought that Con did not look at all fine. He still looked like death, though he had, in the last two days, grown much stronger than she’d thought he would. She wavered, but then decided to remain totally neutral. After all, if you went around advising people and they took your advice, it sort of made you responsible for them. Victorine, of all things, did not want to be responsible for another human being as long as she lived, except Dancy, of course. So she said nothing.