She saw the wrongness that had come with Mr. Ducoed moving away from the fort, away from her and the wrath of Miss Rose. The wrongness had moved too far away for her to deal with it as she was now. She did not trust that the river would spare Da’s men, even if she was the river and the river was her. The Misi-ziibi was a serpent not easily controlled.
She looked for Da and found him. He was dying, the last of his life’s red waters pumping out of him from under the armored wrongness that he had killed even as it killed him. She could not save him. She could not even get Miss Rose to him in time to save him.
Da had tried to save her and Janett and as many of his men as he could.
She could not save Da, but she could avenge him.
She had stacked the waters of the Misi-ziibi up to a height that showed her miles and miles of bayuk, islands and streams, trees and flowers. She had pushed the waters of the river uphill.
Yes, child, the Water Mother said. But once you release the water, again it flows, and all of your pushing and carrying is for nothing. That is the nature of water: to flow.
“It will not be for nothing, Mother,” Margaret said, her voice like the roar of the ocean in a storm.
Margaret moved Mr. Thomas to the crest of the wave she had become. He fought to break free, but the hands of the river held him fast.
She held Mr. Thomas there, wriggling, struggling, failing, so he could see. When she knew he had seen, she released the waters.
If she had still had a mouth to smile with, she would have smiled at Mr. Thomas’ scream as the weight of the waters carried him down and smashed him into the quarried stone of Fort Gunter’s north wall, then washed away the stain of his death as it washed away the fort Da had refused to hand over intact to Mr. Thomas and the wrongness.
Chapter 22
Rose
Misi-ziibi
1742 A.D.
Rose held on to Major Haley, her arms around his chest, as the water around them swirled and followed the wave down toward the fort. Or to what remained of the fort. The crest of the wave had hit the north wall of the fort and pushed, millennia of erosion happening all at once. The wave had erased the fort from the outcropping, leaving only the foundations and a few broken bits of quarried stone. The wave had also wiped clean most of the south face of the hill. She could see men in red uniforms clustered like islands, somehow spared from the fury of the river.
Rose did not understand why she and Major Haley and Janett had not been pulled under the surface of the water as the wave fell. She had felt Chal within the water, though, had heard Chal’s voice speak to her to calm her when Ducoed had been taken away from her by–the water? She did not understand how the river could rise like it had. She did not want to think that the waters of the river had been summoned. No one should have that much power.
Despite that power, though, and the ferocity of the wave that wiped away Fort Gunter, the water holding her, Major Haley and Janett remained gentle. Instead of pulling them under or breaking them against the rocks, the water receded and left them standing on the bare rock at the top of the hill.
Rose stumbled under the sudden drag Major Haley’s weight, then Janett was there, helping her ease Major Haley to the ground. Rose knelt beside Major Haley–Ian; she had never expected to see him alive again; she should call him Ian–and used her hand to push the drops of water off his face. He was breathing, but the right side of his face and neck and chest were badly burned. His right shoulder was broken, as well.
“Can you–?” Janett asked. The girl had also knelt.
Rose nodded. It might kill her, trying to heal this much damage by herself–even with Janett to draw on, without her pistol as a focus, it would be a close thing–but she could do it. “Give me your hand,” she said.
Before she could take Janett’s outstretched hand, she heard footsteps running toward them. She stood, looking around, wishing again that she had her pistol.
A native man was running up the east side of the hill, along the bank of the river, jumping the trenches as he came to them. He wore no headdress or helmet, only a jaguar skin cloak with eagle feathers around the neck. His dark hair, pulled back in single plait, bounced as he ran. His chest was bare, but he wore leather trousers and moccasins. Both the trousers and the moccasins were decorated with figures of eagles and jaguars and the faces of gods that Rose did not recognize. The man carried a maquahuitl in his right hand, the obsidian blades positioned around its edge alternately flashing in the morning sun and absorbing all light that struck them.
Rose moved to put herself between the man and Janett and Major Haley. She had lost her pistol in her fight with Ducoed. She pulled the one pistol she still had from her coat pocket. She did not bother checking the load or pulling back the hammer. The gun was all but useless, but it felt better to have it in hand. She stood there, dripping wet, holding the gun down by her side, waiting for the man.
The man crested the hill and pulled up. He nodded to Rose, then turned to face the north.
Rose turned, following his gaze. She stepped back. The river, she saw, still rose to the top of the cliffs on which she stood. Water lapped over the edge of the north cliff, then fell away around the bend of the river to the south.
As she watched both the man and the water, the surface of the water churned and the crystalline form of a woman rose from the water. No, not a woman. A girl, on the verge of becoming a woman.
The native man placed his maquahuitl on the ground before him, then knelt on his knees and bent his head.
“Miss Rose,” said the form standing on the water, the words coming from the mouth but resonating through entire body of water. Rose felt the words through the rock under her feet. The form spread her arms to encompass the river, the cliffs, everything. “Look!”
Rose looked, but she could think of nothing to say. In her mind, she saw Margaret on the docks of New Venezia, pulling up her skirt to display the rolled cuffs of the trousers beneath.
“Margaret?” said Janett, stepping beside Rose.
Rose glanced at Janett, then looked back at the blue and green form of the water girl. “Margaret?” She saw Margaret’s eyes and chin in the face of the form, just as she had heard Margaret in the voice, but there was more.
“And Chal,” the form said, and smiled Chal’s smile. “We are here. Together.”
“You’re so beautiful,” Janett said. “I always knew you would–”
“I have buried our father,” the form said.
Janett covered her face with her hands. Rose put her arms around Janett’s shoulders as the young woman sobbed. The form of Margaret-Chal looked on. Rose thought she saw tears on the face of the form, but it was difficult to be certain.
“What about Ducoed?” Rose asked.
“Mr. Thomas is gone.”
Again Rose felt the words through the rock she stood on. Gone. She had never heard anything more final.
The form of Margaret-Chal stepped from the water to the naked rock. She walked around the kneeling native man, each step leaving a clear pool of water, then past Rose and Janett. The form knelt beside Major Haley–beside Ian–and touched him with her hand. Where she traced her fingers over his features, his injuries disappeared. He groaned as his right shoulder was moved back into place, then his labored breathing relaxed.
Margaret-Chal stood again and came to Rose and put a warm, wet hand on Rose’s stomach. Something within Rose untwisted and became whole again and she found herself weeping with Janett. Poor Nicholas. He always wanted a child.
Margaret-Chal walked around the kneeling man, walking in the pooled steps she had used before, and stepped back to the water.
“Margaret?” Janett asked.
The form turned around to face them again. Rose saw that Margaret-Chal was crying. Raindrops formed in the air around them, refracted the sunlight into a thousand tiny rainbows, then fell lightly.
“I am Margaret Laxton. I am Chal. I am Chalchiuhtlicue.” The words were spoken with a soft, bubbling voice, like a broo
k, but they were even more final than the death of Ducoed. The words shook the raindrops from the air.
As if those words had been what he was waiting for, the native man sat back on his heels, picked up his weapon, then rose, all in one fluid motion. He turned and ran back down the hill the way he had come. With each step became harder to see until he was nothing but a shimmer moving along the bank of the river. After a second, even that was gone.
Rose turned back to Margaret-Chal. “Chal,” she said. “And all this time I thought I was protecting you.”
“You were, Rose Bainbridge,” said Chal’s voice from the form. “But you do not have to anymore. I have returned to the waters.”
“Margaret,” Janett said. “What about Mum? What about me?”
“Tell Mum … tell her about Da. And me.”
“I will miss you, little sister. Miss Margaret Laxton.”
“Remember me, big sister,” Margaret-Chal said, her features becoming less and less distinct. “But you don’t have to miss me, Miss Janett Laxton. I will always be here. All waters,” she added, her voice becoming the sound of a stream over worn stones, “are one water.”
The form of Margaret-Chal disappeared into ripples on the surface of the water. As Rose and Janett watched, the river ebbed and pulled away from the rocks. There was one last peak and crest of water over the edge of the cliff, and something hard and metallic fell on the rocks and skittered, sending up a few damp sparks and flashes of runes as it slid toward Rose.
Rose picked up her pistol and checked the load out of habit. Then she flicked the gun, scattering drops of water across the still-wet rocks. She doubted she would be able to give it a proper cleaning before getting back to Fort Gunter. Hopefully, Sergeant Tabart was able to preserve a few guns and some dry power.
“Where do we go now, Miss Bainbridge?” Janett asked.
“You can go back to England, if you would like, Miss Laxton,” Rose said, pushing the pistol into her belt.
Janett’s eyes met hers. “Maybe, in time,” Janett said. “It hardly seems right to come all this way to see Da–” Her voice broke, but she continued. “I think I should stay awhile.”
“There’s plenty of time to decide,” Rose said. She peeled the red and gold officer’s coat off her shoulders and arms. She pried off her regimental badge for the 101st Pistoleers, then dropped the coat on the top of the cliff. “We have to get back to New Venezia. General Tendring needs to know what’s happened.” She gave Janett’s wet clothes an up-and-down look. “At least you’re dressed for the bayuk this time.”
Janett nodded.
“Give me a hand with the major, will you?”
With one of Ian’s arms over each of their shoulders, they walked down the hill. Sergeant Tabart and Private Stringefellowe and other men that Rose did not know met them before they had gone half-way. The men had brought a litter. As they moved Ian to the litter, Rose asked if any other officers had survived.
“Just yourself and Major Haley, sir” Sergeant Tabart replied.
“I’m not an officer, sergeant. I’m not even in the army anymore. Stop calling me ‘sir’.”
“Yes, Mum.”
Rose sighed and shook her head, and found herself missing Chal. She walked to the riverbank and squatted on her heels. She touched the water with one finger. Her finger felt … wet. She put the finger on her cheek. The drop of water on her fingertip evaporated against her cheek. Like a friend’s kiss. She kissed her finger and touched the water again.
She heard Janett’s wet moccasins and the damp earth, coming up behind her.
“The sergeant says that the men are ready to move out,” Janett said.
Rose stood and turned. Janett still wore her wet traveling clothes. She had found another rifle, though, and had it slung over her shoulder, the muzzle poking up past her head. She carried a second rifle in her hands. She offered that rifle to Rose.
Rose took it, checked the load, and rested the long barrel against her right shoulder.
“Alright then,” she said. “Let’s go.”
THE END of
GUNWITCH
A Tale of the King’s Coven
# # #
About the Author
Most days, David Michael is a software developer and a writer. Some days, he’s a writer and a software developer. Other days, he’s an amateur photographer. Because, really, who is the same person every day?
David is the designer and developer of DavidRM Software’s The Journal, personal journaling software for Windows. He has also designed and developed video games, and has written two nonfiction books and numerous articles about video game development.
David lives with his wife and kids in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
David blogs about writing at Guns & Magic: www.gunsandmagic.com
Other novels by David:
The Door to the Sky
The Girl Who Ran With Horses (Young Adult)
The Summoning Fire
Ebook stories and collections by David Michael:
“A Fine Mess”
“Baptism”
“Curtain Call”
“Effie Two-Five”
“Evanescent”
“Insanity”
“Nostalgia”
“Secondhand Coffin”
“Sweet Tooth”
“The Perfect Hiding Place”
Brain Freeze & Other Stories
Demon Candy
Nasty, Brutish & Short Short
Serene Morning & Other Tales of a Little Girl
The World Wears Thin
About the Cover
Cover painting, Deadly Thorns, by Don Michael, Jr.
See more of Don’s paintings at his Web page:
www.donmichaeljr.com
DavidRM Software's The Journal
http://www.davidrm.com/thejournal/
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GUNWITCH
A Tale of the King’s Coven
by David Michael
Published by Four Crows Landing
Tulsa, Oklahoma
www.fourcrowslanding.com
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Gunwitch Page 31
