by Socha, Walt
Brent paused and looked back over his shoulder, downriver, and then let his gaze drift upriver. “Those geological folds we see lead me to believe this is the Susquehanna.”
“Are there valleys beyond those ridges?”
“There are ridges beyond those ridges. And long narrow valleys between them.”
Joe took out his binoculars and spent several minutes peering at the distant contours. “It appears that the river cuts through those ridges. Correct?”
“Well, it’s been a while.” Brent gave a small bark of a laugh. “Or will be a while. When I made that trip, there were highways between the river and the cut faces of the ridges.” He had his own binoculars out, also peering northwest. “But right now I’d say there isn’t much land between the river and those ridges. Maybe enough for a footpath.”
Joe sat for several more minutes. A valley would help keep the horses corralled. And a narrow valley facing the river could be defended. “How high are those ridges?”
“Maybe a thousand feet at the most, four or five times that wide. Passable on foot. But better than nothing.”
Brent paused, a frown flickering across his face. “If you’re thinking security, I agree.”
“Yeah.” Joe lowered his binoculars. “Eastern Pennsylvania then?”
Brent nodded.
“I’ve been wondering about the burial mounds. They’re extensively used in the Mississippi River region. But the Mound Culture’s influence did extend up the Ohio River and into western Pennsylvania. So that sort of matches.” “I’m thinking it would be a day’s ride up to those ridges. Then two days back to the village.”
“I hear you.” Joe put the binos back in its case. “But what if the valley is occupied?”
“There are several valleys. And we have to move upstream anyways.”
Joe shifted his weight in his saddle. “Let’s do it.” Joe nudged Snark around. “We can camp at the small clearing we passed a mile back and get an early start back tomorrow.” He nudged his horse forward. If this was eastern Pennsylvania, then they could plan on resources. He recalled iron ore and coal deposits. Larry might know more about that. And Chesapeake Bay had abundant fish if the Tork problem ever got resolved. The early colonies had had a wealth of resources to call upon.
Joe jerked upright in his saddle, his blood throbbing in his ears.
Snark whinnied and pranced at Joe’s sudden movement. “What’s the matter,” Brent said and slipped his rifle out of its sheath. “What do you see?”
“Nothing.” Joe turned to face his friend. “But if you’re correct about this area being pre-contact North America, then Alta’s descendants will be decimated.”
Chapter 20. Day 10
Joe reined in beside the ceremonial poles and gazed west. Brent halted beside him. “What’s up?”
“No one’s on guard.” Joe stood up in the saddle, peering at the trail leading west, along the burial mound, toward Stream Crossing. He pulled his rifle from its sheath.
Then resheathed it has a mounted figure appeared from behind the burial mound and waved a sword in the air. “Shit.” Joe let out a long breath, willing his pounding heart to slow.
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Joe accepted the bowl of stew from Alta, giving her a smile in exchange. She responded with her own brief smile then lowered her eyes.
“Thanks, Alta. It smells great.” He hesitated then stepped aside to let Brent get his bowl filled. Joe glanced back. Alta had seemed more reserved these last several days. A delayed reaction to her parent’s deaths? He made a mental note to give her more room to grieve.
Joe sat in an empty camp chair. He looked at the children sitting in a semicircle behind him. “You all had enough dinner?”
Grins answered him, several with missing baby teeth. “All quiet here?” Joe asked Larry.
“No dead bodies for two whole days now.” Larry’s face wore a thin smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“You gave me quite the start when I didn’t see anyone posted at the top of the mound.” Joe peered at Larry with what he hoped was a stern face. The mound was sacred but also had a good view of the camp and the trail to the river. “Matu was on guard. He ran to get me when he saw you guys.” Larry ignored Joe’s look. “Good thing he did or Potts wouldn’t have left you any dinner.” Larry glanced to the top of the mound where Potts sat in one of the other camp chairs, staring in the direction of the river.
“Alright, enough suspense.” Kristi handed Joe a mug of coffee. “So what did you see?”
“Brent, it’s your story,” Joe said as Kristi handed a second mug to Brent.
“Thanks.” Brent took a sip. “I’m going to miss coffee.” He described the river and the inland ridges. “So I’m guessing that we’re on the Susquehanna River, in southeastern Pennsylvania.” Brent eyed Joe. “Still thinking that you’ve a handle on the time frame?”
“Precontact. Some influence from the Mound Culture in the interior.” Joe set his mug on the ground and stirred his stew. “Plus or minus a few hundred years, I’m guessing 1000 AD.”
“Damnation.” Kristi eyes flicked to each of the men. “We’re in a culture with no protection from European diseases.”
“How about a translation?” Larry raised his eyebrows at Kristi.
“Ninety to ninety-five percent of the inhabitants of North America died from diseases after contact with Europe.” Kristi’s shoulders slumped. “The Mayflower arrived to find empty fields and tended forests waiting for them, the inhabitants dead and gone. I never thought about bringing vaccines.” She blew out a breath and shook her head. “Like I could vaccinate an entire continent.”
Larry looked over his shoulder toward the children and his face clouded. “Are we gonna give ‘em anything?”
All eyes turned to Kristi. For a minute she stared into the fire. “Alta got a bit of a cold back at the ranch.” She shifted her gaze to the children. “But nothing else. And we’ve all been in pretty good health.” The edges of her mouth turned up slightly. “I’m thinking they’re going to be alright. None of us is sick with measles, cholera, or smallpox, the diseases that killed off most of the people here.”
After a long minute, Larry shook himself. “Back to the question about what to do now.”
“If we are on the Susquehanna, we at least have a general idea of the surrounding terrain,” Joe said. “Which is what?” Larry scowled at his empty coffee cup and set it on the ground.
“We can see the low hills with thick forest except for anthropological burned areas. Yesterday we saw those geological pressure ridges to the north that form valleys, which run roughly southwest to northeast. So we can expect the Appalachian Mountains to the west and Lake Erie—or Ontario, I never could keep them straight—to the north. And our river drains south into Chesapeake Bay.”
“Anthro what?”
“Human caused.” Joe stood up to take his bowl to the camp wash station.
Alta stepped in front of Joe. “I will clean your bowl.” She kept her eyes down.
“Thanks, Alta.” Joe stared at her retreating back for a minute before sitting and turning to Larry. “Regardless of the name of this river or the location of its outlet, it still remains better to move upriver. Somewhere defendable.” “Shouldn’t we move away from the river?” Kristi asked.
“In the long term, access to the river for transportation will be critical.” Joe said. “And for fish.”
“I’m also worried about crops.” Brent sat. “And we’ve been stalling about getting the fruit trees in the ground.” “I think Joe’s for moving upriver and settling in one of those valleys.” Kristi looked at Joe. “Correct?”
Joe stared at the fire for several minutes. “I think we should leave tomorrow morning.”
Chapter 21. Day 11
Larry shifted in the saddle. “Easy Mojo. This armor’s heavy on me too.” He looked back along the trail, scowling at the trampled trail through the tall grass.
He stood in the stirrups and stretched, looking around
him. They stood at the top of a small hill under an ancient fire-scorched oak tree, surrounded by a clearing several hundred yards in diameter. To his left and hundreds of feet lower, the Long River—or the Susquehanna if Brent was correct—ran to the southeast. The trail ran erratically along the river, breaking in and out of heavy forest.
He’d given them another hour before he’d followed them to the next good lookout. Damn, the children must be getting tired. Almost all of the horses were carrying packs, so the older children were walking. Larry’s scowl deepened. Except for that Samatu.
Mojo fidgeted. He dismounted and let the horse nibble at the lush grass.
Larry considered the terrain. Joe might be right about all that anthro-whatsit burning. Small saplings were shooting up among the grasses. Now that the humans were gone—or dead—the forest was trying to take back the land. They’d passed three small villages today, and all had been destroyed. By Tork’s men? They’d searched for survivors in the first. Didn’t bother after that.
A flicker of movement broke his thoughts. Something moved at the break in the forest. A man. No, several men.
Larry reached for his sword. Stopped. Better do it the easy way. He nudged Mojo behind the tree and tied the reins to a low branch, and then slipped the rifle out of its sheath.
He waited as three men followed the wide beaten path through the knee-high grasses. When they were 50 yards away, he sighted. Had to get them all. If one slipped into the tall grass, he might get away. At 40 yards, he squeezed the trigger. Then twice more.
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“No choice.” Joe stood next to Larry with his hand on the big guy’s shoulder. Kristi and Alta sat in nearby chairs. Potts knelt next to the fire, stirring a large pot, the children sitting around him amusing themselves as they ate their dinner with metal spoons.
Larry looked up at Joe, and his face tightened. “Yeah, I know.” He stared at the fire. “I just gotta think of the little girl with the bashed head when I tighten my finger on the trigger.”
“Are we sure no one got away?” Brent appeared out of the darkness, night vision goggles in hand.
“Footprints were a mess. But I’m sure there were only three.” Joe took the goggles. “At least on foot. Tork’s men tend to use canoes, so there may be more of them in the area. A canoe would be hard to spot along the thickly forested riverbank.”
He thought back on his frantic ride back along the trail after he’d heard Larry’s gunshots, to find his friend dragging one of the bodies into the thick brush at the edge of the clearing. “I’ll bring up the rear tomorrow.” His eyes peered into the darkness. “Zoey okay?”
“All’s quiet.” Brent took a bowl of stew from Potts and looked at Kristi. “How’s our prisoner?”
“Samatu would be in agony from the ride if not for the painkillers.” She shook her head. “Being tied to a horse is aggravating the injury. No help for it though.”
“I’m thinking you ought to stay at point tomorrow,” Brent said to Joe. “I’ll take a turn at the rear.”
“Nay, I’ll keep the rear,” said Larry. “Seems I’m good at it.” He watched his fingers opened and closed. Then looked at Joe. “I’ll spell you in two hours.”
Joe nodded and walked into the darkness.
Chapter 22. Day 12
The trail narrowed as it led between the crumbling face of the ridge and the river. Joe started to slip his Winchester from its sheath but secured it when a low branch slapped his face. He loosened his pistol in its holster. Great place for an ambush. Or a defensive position. Across the river, he could see a matching ridge face. Further north, another ridge paralleled the one he was cutting through.
He nodded to himself. “Snark, we may be home.” The crumbling ridge forced the trail to curve close to the river, and larger rocks tangled with high water debris slowed Snark’s steps. Joe dismounted to lead the mare among the rocks. Only a few stunted trees struggled in the broken ground, leaving him with an open view of the ridge face and river. The ridge was maybe 700 feet high here. Where it met the river, white water danced over its worn bones. On the other side of the river, it rose up again to continue its march east.
After a couple hundred yards, the broken ground smoothed again into the meandering trail, and Joe remounted.
Another quarter mile or so brought them to the edge of a smaller ridgeline where, this time, the trail remained good enough to ride. In a half mile, Joe broke out of the thick trees into the open.
A large valley lay before him. Beyond rose yet another of these geological ridges. In the center of the mile wide valley stood a large village surrounded by cultivated fields. Joe figured it was a few hundred yards from the river. Smoke drifted upwards in the light breeze from several cooking fires. He frowned. Many longhouses, but few fires. Joe nudged Snark forward through the tall grasses. His friends were probably only a couple hours behind him. He needed to determine if this village was connected to Tork.
As he rode close, several people gathered a few yards in front of the nearest longhouse. But no barking dogs. And no children.
By the time he reached the closest field, about a half dozen people, women and men, all but one elderly, stood watching. Still no children. The younger man stood about twenty yards in front of the rest, holding a spear. Joe squinted. The man leaned on the spear.
Joe halted his horse fifty yards from the warrior and dismounted. Even at this distance, he could see the man’s eyes widen as he physically separated himself from Snark. His fingers brushed the revolver in its holster as he walked forward. “I come in peace.”
“There is no peace,” the man’s voice rasped.
Joe stopped when he had halved the distance between them. The man wore a leather loincloth, similar to Tork’s men. And a leather hat? No, the leather held a layer of moss that was clotted with blood. Damn.
Joe took a deep breath. “There is peace between your people and my people. We flee from violence. We flee a man named Tork. Do you know of him?”
“His warriors killed my people. His warriors took our children.” The man looked back at the others. They stood staring. No expressions crossed their wrinkled faces. “My people follow me.” Joe waved his hand in the direction of the trail he had followed. “We travel from a long distance and now seek a place to live. My name is Joe. May we enter your valley and talk?”
The man looked back at the others for a long minute before turning back to face Joe. “I am Levanu. We will talk...” He collapsed.
For several seconds, nobody moved. Then two of the men rushed forward. One knelt next to the warrior. The other picked up his spear and moved in front of his fallen friend.
Joe hesitated. The man was obviously injured. And his older friends were suspicious. Probably with good reason. Joe backed up to Snark, watched by the man with the spear. The others now crowded around the fallen man.
Joe mounted and faced the small group of survivors. “I will return with medicine and a healer.”
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Tork loosened his braid and ran his fingers through his gray-streaked hair. By all the gods, how could this have happened? Over two hands of warriors lost.
He looked at the warrior standing before him. Nist sweated in the heat of the lodge. The man’s eyes were fixed on nothing. The tightness in his jaw revealed the pain from the wound in his arm. It was a strange wound. Small hole on one side of the man’s bicep. A larger ragged hole on the other side. Could the strangers really call lightning from the sky? Lightning that passed through the arm? Nist had reported that the strangers fought with lightning and thunder when his warriors had attacked at dawn.
Tork glanced to the doorway. Beyond, his warriors milled about, waiting for his decision. A hand of them were injured, one dying. Let them wait.
He closed his eyes. Just one more obstacle to his plans. Only a delay, though. The plan was everything. Resistance along the great Salt Waters he had expected, but not from the fat, soft villages along the inland river.
Tork looked at his old f
riend. “Nist, please sit.”
Nist lowered himself onto the deerskin, moving slowly and favoring his left arm. Relief relaxed some of the lines in his face.
Tork raised his voice. “Bring drink and food.”
“It was a black dream.” Nist gazed directly at Tork. “One of the devils knew we were about to attack. He had a magic spear that spit lightning and thunder. Three warriors fell within a few heartbeats.”
“How did your warriors fight?”
“Two of the conscripted warriors started to flee when the lightning and thunder started.” Nist’s right hand opened and closed. “The rest—and all the Skullmen— continued the attack until half fell. I ordered the survivors to withdraw.”
As Tork watched his friend, old images flooded his mind of a younger Nist cutting an equally young Tork and his mother down from the poles. Of Nist leading them away from his dead father and the tribe that had betrayed them.
“We’ve done much together.” Tork let out a long breath. “Too much for a problem with strange demons to come between us.”
“I fear these demons.” Nist looked down.
Tork watched his friend for several breaths before shifting his gaze to the doorway. Beyond, his men waited for his orders. Orders that they would follow because he provided them land and slaves. And because they and their families would be punished otherwise. But both reward and punishment depended on success. He returned his eyes to Nist. Failure invited doubt about his plans. And about himself. But maybe...
“Can you say if the demons have power, or if it is the magic spears that have power?”
Nist looked up. His shoulders squared. “The demons that killed from a distance each had a lightning spear. But one killed with a short spear with long sharp edges. He is a powerful warrior, but not with magic.”
“Maybe not demons. Maybe just demon weapons.” A smile stretched Tork’s leathery face. “Perhaps we can learn from these demons that are not demons. Their weapons could be useful in the future.” And maybe shorten the days until he destroyed the killers of his father.
