Future Indefinite

by Dave Duncan

  Prat’han arrived first, with the other two close on his heels. They grounded their spears.

  “Greetings!” the big man said.

  Dosh looked for the mockery he expected. Surprisingly, he did not find it. “Greetings to you,” he responded warily.

  Tielan chuckled. “The Liberator said you would turn up! Been a long time, Dosh!” The trader was a small, wiry man. He had always had a flippant, juvenile air about him and he had not lost it. Yet even he did not seem to be gloating. He stepped forward and grasped Dosh’s shoulder in the Nagian greeting. Prat’han and Gopaenum quickly did the same, as if caught out in a breach of manners. Dosh responded doubtfully.

  Well, well! All old friends together now?

  “You look as if you’ve had a hard day.” Prat’han peered at the moa and frowned. “You’ve ridden that poor brute into the ground!”

  “It was it or me.”

  “The troopers came by not long after you left us last night,” Gopaenum said. “I’m surprised they missed you. And pleased too, of course!” he added without much conviction. In the last few years he had gained weight and moved most of his hair from his scalp to his chest.

  “You told them where I’d gone, though?”

  The three exchanged glances.

  Prat’han shrugged. “You’d refused the Liberator’s offer.”

  Dosh waited for more, but they waited too.

  “And what happens when they turn up tonight? Will you tell them I’m here?”

  Gopaenum and Tielan looked expectantly at Prat’han. The big man was their leader, after D’ward. He sidestepped the question.

  “We were hoping you’d changed your mind, Dosh.”

  “You’re lying. D’ward may be hoping that, but you aren’t, none of you. Join you? Why should I trust you?”

  “Because we’re prepared to trust you, of course.”

  “You are or D’ward is?”

  Prat’han put his weight on his spear as if he expected to be there for a while. “Whatever D’ward wants is enough for us. He said we were to look out for you and make you welcome if you want to join the Free.”

  Dosh snorted in disbelief. “I just have to promise to be a good boy in future and you’ll accept me as your long-lost brother? You?”

  The big man bared his teeth. “I’ll try. I really will try. You were our friend once.”

  His memory was very selective. Friend? Never. After the sack of Lemod, they’d stopped spitting at Dosh Catamite but that was about all.

  “You mean you’d defend me from the troopers? You’d lie to them? You’d fight for me?” Dosh laughed.

  The other two scowled at him. At least Prat’han was trying, although the effort was making his forehead shiny. “We’d do that for a friend, of course—for a brother, I mean. D’ward says you weren’t a Thargian spy at—”

  “Ha! But I was a spy. Did he mention that?”

  “Yes. But he told us to remember how you proved yourself at Lemod, how you went out with him that night, how you went over the wall right after him. He said if you do want to join the Free, you’ll prove it.”

  Startled and then suspicious, Dosh said, “Prove it how?”

  “He didn’t tell us that.”

  Tielan said, “He said it’s up to Prat’han. You gotta convince Big Pots here. Go ahead and convince. I’m sure it will be an interesting performance.”

  Gopaenum chuckled. “I’m looking forward to it, too. Actions speak louder than words, the Liberator says.”

  The bastards were really enjoying this. Dosh peered around, hoping to see some alternative. He didn’t. The valley was almost dark now, so that the scattered fires shone brighter. The singing had stopped. The crowd at the ruins had fallen silent, listening to someone speaking—D’ward, probably, but the snatches the wind brought were too faint to make out. The only other sounds were thuddings of axes as the last trees turned into firewood. The moa was useless; if he took off on his own feet, he’d be run down easily. The Nagians knew he was here and would tell the troopers. It was join them or die. He was shaking now from cold and exhaustion, but these boneheads would think it was from fear. Maybe they were right. He’d have to join the Free, at least until morning. Join them how?

  “You’re going to bring death to Death?”

  “To try,” Prat’han said. “We’re not fools, Dosh. We know this is dangerous. Some of us may die. All of us may die. We think it’s worth the risk, that’s all—no more reapers.”

  “If it scares you, you don’t have to, of course,” Tielan added.

  There was one thing he could do, but his whole self shied away from the prospect like a fiery death. “Suppose I agree now and change my mind tomorrow?”

  Prat’han chewed his lip unhappily for a moment. He was having to think, and he usually managed not to get involved with that. “Suppose you’ll be free to go. Anyone’s free to go. One or two of us turned back; missed their wives, they said.”

  Gopaenum shivered noisily. “You going to stand there all night? Come on—convince!”

  Dosh thought it over again and reluctantly came to the same conclusion as before. He sighed. “You still a butcher?”

  “I was until a coupl’a fortnights ago. Why?”

  “Lot of hungry people out there tonight. I don’t need this moa if I’m going to join you, do I? Take it, kill it, share it out. The saddle can go to make shoes for some of the kids.”

  Gopaenum and Tielan looked inquiringly at Prat’han.

  “Doesn’t prove much, Dosh. It makes you conspicuous and it’s half dead already.”

  “I haven’t finished!” Dosh snapped, although he’d had hopes. “And it’s still worth a hundred stars! Here, I’ve got some cash, too.” He pulled out his money bag, wishing he’d had the foresight to divide his riches between two bags.

  Tielan snarled, “We don’t want your filthy gold!”

  And him a trader!

  “Not for you, shitface. For those hungry people. Come and watch.”

  Hardly able to believe he was letting himself be suckered like this, he stumbled off into the gloom, heading for the nearest campfire, Prat’han and Tielan stalking along at his heels. Gopaenum stayed with the moa, and it cried out briefly in the background as Dosh handed the first coin to an astonished child. More children flocked around; he gave them silver. He strode over to the next fire and the next, choosing those that were not cooking food. He dropped coins to mothers with babies, laid others beside sleeping children. He found himself laughing rather shrilly at the expressions on the adults’ faces. Then the bag was empty. He turned to the two Nagians.

  “Well? Have I convinced you now?”

  Tielan beamed and opened his mouth.

  “Why stop now?” Prat’han demanded, frowning. “That’s a pricey-looking outfit. What’s in the pockets?”

  “Nothing, you stupid ox!”

  “Well, you can’t cross a river halfway, D’ward says. Finish the job, Dosh. Do it all.”

  Cursing under his breath, Dosh stripped. He gave away his tunic, his boots, his precious knife belt. He exchanged his fine linen breeches for a grubby loincloth off an astonished beggar. Then, penniless and barefoot, he turned on Prat’han. “Well? You want my skin, too? Because that’s all I’ve got left. You want to pull out my toenails, you, you…” He wanted to scream.

  With a bellow of joy, Prat’han enveloped him in a bear hug so tight his ribs creaked. “Well done, Dosh! Well, well done! D’ward said you’d prove yourself and none of us believed him!”

  Then it was Tielan’s turn. He not only hugged Dosh, he kissed his cheek. “Welcome, brother! Come and meet the others, Brother Dosh.”

  They led him back to where Gopaenum was passing out hunks of still-warm meat to an excited throng. More of the Warband emerged from the darkness. Told what he had done, they embraced him and bade him welcome to the Free. They all smiled as if they meant it, although he couldn’t see their faces clearly. It was easy enough for them. They hadn’t had to throw away a forn
icating fortune to join a madhouse.

  IV

  Now this, O monks, is the noble truth of the cessation of pain: the cessation, without a reminder, of that craving; abandonment, forsaking, release, non-attachment.

  Buddha

  17

  It was February. It was almost dark. It was raining. To say rain was falling would be inaccurate—it moved in gray sheets parallel to the ground, sweeping horizontally across the sodden flatland of Norfolk so that it could needle into Alice’s face, insinuate its cold presence under the edges of her sou’wester to soak her hair, creep down the tops of her Wellingtons, trickle icily into the neck and sleeves of her raincoat. The wind tugged and wrestled at the coat, which was much too large for her and probably Tudor, or at least Georgian. She had found it in hanging on a nail in the cottage, overlooked or unwanted by those who had taken all the other contents. No wonder the English had conquered half the world—a race toughened by such weather could overcome anything.

  Her hands and face ached with the cold. She had been a fool to come out for a walk and an even bigger fool to head downwind. Now she had the gale in her face all the way back and the going was much harder. She had wanted some fresh air, but not quite this much, thank you. She was still so weak that it had blown her over twice already, sliding her feet from under her in the mire, so she was almost as muddy as the track itself. She would have no one to blame but herself if she caught a chill; the doctor had warned her not to get overtired, but he had not thought of hypothermia. Wistful dreams of hot, steaming tea in large quantities drove her onward.

  But not far now. She turned into the little driveway to her door. The hugely overgrown hedges on either side gave her shelter from the wind.

  She ought to fill up the coal scuttle before she went in, while she had her coat on. Had she ever truly appreciated the gas fire in her flat in London, or the roof there that did not leak? Even the screaming boredom of the office had taken on a certain nostalgic glow now. Frailty, thy name is Alice! She had made her decision and would live with it. Tonight she would finish painting the ceiling if it killed her. She had started four days ago and she could still see more mildew than paint.

  As she left the shelter of the hedges, the wind grabbed at her, flapping her coat, making her stagger. She almost walked into the car before she saw it. She stopped in astonishment, wiping rain from her eyes.

  It was a very large motorcar, parked right at her door. Large and black. Just for a moment, it reminded her of D’Arcy’s old Vauxhall. A wild, crazy fantasy…It was all a horrible mistake, darling. I’ve been in a German prison camp….

  No, that was madness. Even if it were true, she had seen the Vauxhall wrecked by bombs in Greenwich eighteen months ago during those few chaotic days when Edward had returned from fairyland. And the other, corresponding, daydream, of Terry turning up saying, No, love, I wasn’t drowned… that was even more impossible. If Terry were to come back from the dead, he would not do so in a car.

  But who did she know who had an automobile and access to petrol? No one. The war had not been over long enough for such luxuries to have reappeared. And almost nobody would have known where to find her anyway. She had not yet written all the letters she meant to write, ought to write, must get around to writing.

  A neighbor coming to call? Leaving cards? She would not expect the locals to drop around and leave cards—that seemed a ludicrous idea in a rural wilderness like this. She had been expecting someone to drop in before now, just to check out the newcomer. She had not been expecting a car to come by itself, and this one was certainly unoccupied.

  She fingered the big key in her pocket. She was quite certain she had locked the door, although that would probably seem an unfriendly act to the locals. There were no other houses within a mile of her and she had no telephone. Until now, that situation had not bothered her. She really should not let it trouble her now….

  But where was the driver? In the outhouse? In the shed at the back? It made no sense to take shelter in either of those, for the car itself would be more comfortable. If her visitor had evil intentions, it made even less sense to lie in wait for her somewhere with the car standing in full view. She moved slowly to the door. The cottage’s two tiny, secretive windows both faced the front, and few people would be able to clamber in through them anyway. Neither was broken or showed conspicuous signs of tampering. The long grass under them had not been trampled.

  Very gently she depressed the latch; the door was still locked. More relieved than she cared to admit, she twisted the key in the keyhole and heard the antique lock clatter. The wind hurled her into the cottage in a cloud of rain. She heaved the door back and slammed it. She shot the bolt.

  Panting and shivering, she stood for a moment, hearing the patter of mud and water on the newspapers covering the floor at her feet, grateful to be in out of the storm, unable to see anything except the twinkle of firelight. Bring in more coal? Coal could wait. If her unknown visitor had merely gone to visit the privy, she would hear him return to the car.

  She hauled off her hat. The reek of turpentine in the room was sickening. Gradually her eyes adjested to the light and she saw the sink and counter in the corner, the stepladder, the tins of paint, the paraffin lamp, the sofa and chair draped in dust covers as if veiled for a funeral. All the rest of the furniture had been crammed away into the bedroom. The woman on the sofa was drinking tea.

  Yelping with shock, Alice jumped back and cannoned into the door.

  The visitor frowned and lowered her cup into the saucer she held in her other hand. “Good afternoon, Miss Prescott. I’m sorry if I startled you.” She sat tall and erect in a sensible brown tweed coat with a fur collar. A cumbersome handbag lay beside her on the sofa. Her bright-glinting eyes and angular features were oddly birdlike.

  For a moment Alice had no breath to speak but every muscle in her body tried to move independently in all directions. Then she croaked, “You’re younger!”

  The visitor raised carefully penciled eyebrows to suggest that the remark was in questionable taste. “Younger than what? Magna Carta?”

  “Than when I last met you, of course. Are you still Miss Pimm?”

  She was completely dry, from her neat hat to her practical, square-toed shoes, although the path outside was awash in mud. There was no sign of moisture on her fur collar.

  “That name will do, I suppose, Miss Prescott.”

  Suddenly shock gave way to anger. “And mine is Pearson.” Alice struggled with the buttons on her coat.

  The witch glanced briefly at the ringless fingers and considered that information for a moment. “You are living alone, though, Mrs. Pearson. I take it that condolences are in order?”

  An explanation would be much more in order. Not the locked door. That was easy enough to understand, for Miss Pimm had once removed Alice herself from a bicycle and placed her in the backseat of an automobile while the two vehicles were approaching each other at a hundred miles an hour. Why, though, had she invaded Alice’s hard-won solitude in the depths of darkest Norfolk? Could she not recognize a hermitage when she saw one?

  Then understanding and excitement: “Edward? You have news of Edward?”

  “He is alive and well, as of a couple of weeks ago. And he is the reason for my intrusion, of course. He always is, isn’t he?” Miss Pimm shook her head in mild exasperation. “I must have an impacted mother instinct where that boy is concerned.”

  “He has returned?”

  “No. He is still on Nextdoor. He never came Home, as he promised. I should have informed you promptly if I had had word of him. This is the first definite news I have heard.”

  And the first Alice had heard of either of them in years. She hung her hat and muddy coat on the nail by the door. “You had had indefinite news?”

  “I received a report that he had announced his intention of fulfilling the prophecy and had then left Olympus. The details were so vague and so unlikely that I chose not to trouble you with them.”

 
Alice chafed her cold and aching hands, then pulled her feet out of the Wellingtons. “And what is more definite this time?”

  “I shall get to that in due course. I made some tea.” Obviously. And the teapot in its cozy was perched on the ladder, one step up from the milk jug, the sugar bowl, and a second cup and saucer. All those things had come out of the jumble in the bedroom. Miss Pimm was a very efficient busybody, for Alice had not been gone more than twenty minutes.

  “It was very kind of you to come so far to let me know,” she said sweetly, heading for the tea. She had no need to ask how the old hussy had tracked her down.

  “You have been ill.”

  “Is it so obvious?”

  “Not to most people, no.”

  “I had a touch of the Spanish flu.”

  “You were in good company. You must find this place very lonely after London?”

  “By choice.” Anger made her hands shake as she poured the tea. In the month she had been here, no one had come to call except tradesmen: milkman, butcher, grocer, and the postman twice. Not a single neighbor. She had wanted solitude and found a ton of it. Until now. Now her privacy had been raped. She sat down on the lumpy, shrouded chair and sipped at the tea while trying to face down Miss Pimm’s penetrating scrutiny. “How is Head Office?”

  Miss Pimm pouted. “Licking our wounds.”

  “But you won, didn’t you?”

  “The result might best be described as a draw. We won in the West. We definitely lost Russia and we are seriously concerned about the Peace Conference. The struggle against evil continues; the Blighters have regrouped. They outwitted us with the Spanish flu.”