“They knew we were here,” said Olly, wondenngly. “The coyotes. But did the others know? Before that last one smelled us?”
“They knew,” whispered Abasio, certain of it. “One set was waiting for us, the other set was following us. They just didn’t get a chance to do anything about it.”
The angel whistled softly and flew to the pillars at their left, where Big Blue remained hidden in shadow. Abasio and Olly scrambled atop the horse and went back the way they had come, down the twisting path to the north, then around the hill and westward once more, lit by the moon. When they arrived at the wagon, they circled it once from a distance, seeing it was as they had left it except for deep parallel grooves down the wagon door. The assault on the wagon had evidently been interrupted when at least one of the monsters had trodden upon the fire, for there were ashy footprints on every side together with a lingering ogre-stink of rot and filth.
Without even discussing it, Abasio harnessed Big Blue to the wagon, and they drove on southward until they had put a good distance between them and their previous campsite. They had no illusions of safety. If another ogre was looking for them, if the surviving one came back, they could be found by their smell, by the impressions left by the wheels, even by the sound of the wagon as it creaked through the darkness. None of that mattered as much as getting away from where those tracks were, where that stench was, where the terrible monsters had been.
The border of Artemisia, when the wagon reached it at last, was marked by signs printed in several languages, a widely spaced line of them stretching into the distance on either side. The signs forbade unauthorized entry. The highway, which they had not seen for a while, now appeared east of them, gleaming under the late-day sun of autumn, and they could make out a considerable gate standing athwart the pavement with a line of vehicles inching past it, smoking mechanical trucks and vans as well as horse-drawn wagons.
No barrier prevented their crossing in the same two ruts they had followed for days, ruts that ran past the signs and thence southward across endless vistas of dried tufty grass interrupted by thorny growths and feathery yellow puffs of rabbit brush. Olly had been in and out of the wagon all day, gathering the blooms for the golden-yellow dye they produced.
“Now what?” she asked over the armful of flowers she was tucking into a knotted string bag. “What do we do now, Sonny?”
He had said the name pinched him like new boots, so she used it every now and then, getting it broken in, she told him, against a time of need, often watching him as she did now to see his reaction.
There was no reaction. He merely braked the wagon and sat silently as he examined the surroundings. South of them was mostly flat, pinkish desert, dotted with dark balloons of piñon and juniper, gray brushes of sage and chamisa. Dropping the reins, Abasio climbed to the roof of the wagon, where he turned to make a full-circle examination of their surroundings. West were carved buttes and long rock-rimmed, tree-splotched diagonals thrusting toward towering clouds scudding along on their flat gray bottoms. Beyond the crenellated tablelands, indigo mountains lay in rumpled heaps, like dropped laundry, in some places rising into snow-capped peaks. Eastward was desert, and highway, and gate. In that direction the view had changed slightly, and he pointed with an outstretched arm.
“Somebody,” he said.
“Somebody coming, galope, galope,” murmured the guardian-angel from its customary position at the front of the wagon. Cermit had indulged himself with a bit of fancy work on the shutters behind the wagon seat, and the angel found the carved oak leaves an ideal perch.
Olly looked up, startled.
“Where?” she demanded.
Her companion pointed again toward the east, where a wobbly blot could be discerned moving toward them. At this distance, all they could really see was the scurrying motion of multiple legs and a minuscule increase in size. The rider appeared to be a large bird.
“Whoever it is, they’re coming from the direction of the guard post.” said Abasio. “Probably someone official. We might as well wait.” He draped the reins over the wagon seat and climbed down to join Olly on the ground. Big Blue heaved a sigh that made the harness creak and dragged the braked wheels forward until he was within reach of the tuft of green he’d been eyeing.
Olly stuffed the last of her clipped blossoms into the bag and hung it among others on the wagon’s side as she climbed into the wagon through the side door.
The rear of the inside space was taken up with the two box beds, set at right angles, one above the foot of the other, with drawers beneath for clothing and blankets. On either side of the box beds, capacious cupboards held their equipment and supplies, and at the front of the wagon was a comfortably padded bench with shutters opening behind the driver’s seat, allowing them to drive the wagon from inside when the weather was bad. Reefed tight to the wagon side was an awning with side curtains that could be drawn out to make a shelter for Big Blue or an open-sided tent for cooking in wet weather, and hung on the same side was the fire grill, made to order by the smith in Whitherby, its legs folded flat. A rack on the roof held more bulky items including the dye table and the large dye pots, nested one inside another.
At Olly’s suggestion, Abasio had hung a stout basket on the wagon side, and any chunks of firewood encountered along the way were tossed into it. Now Olly got out the teakettle, filled it from the water barrel at the back of the wagon, unhooked the grill from the door, and set about building a fire from the contents of her woodbasket, all with much practiced economy of motion. If they were to receive a civilized visitor, they should at least offer tea, and by this time they both knew that her fires were better than Abasio’s. He seemed incapable of building one that didn’t smoke.
The kettle was steaming by the time the rider came near enough for them to identify him as a much-befeathered person. The horse slowed as it approached, ears forward, looking with interest at Big Blue. The rider pulled it to a halt and leaped from his large, much-ornamented saddle to stride gracefully toward them, a tasseled and bell-dangled lance in one hand, tall headdress and plumed shoulders nodding with every step.
Abasio stood up politely from where he’d been sitting beside the fire and held out his hands, palms up. Olly remained seated while duplicating the gesture. Though the fancy being before them merited more than a casual glance, they were careful not to stare.
He said something in a deep orator’s voice, raising the lance and shaking it so the bells rang wildly.
They shook their heads gently, hands out and empty, indicating that they could catch no meaning from what he said.
“Would you share tea?” asked Olly, holding up a cup.
The visitor heaved a dramatic sigh, shook his lance into a frenzied jangle once more, and asked, “Who are you and what are you doing here?”
Olly bowed from where she sat by the fire. “We are Olly and Sonny Longaster, dyers, hoping to travel through Artemisia.”
“What business have you there?” he demanded, scowling with unbelievable ferocity, an expression no doubt chosen to accord with the painted frown lines on his face.
“An order of printed silk neckcloths to deliver to the Clan of Wide Mountain,” said Olly, trying not to smile. His dreadful expression was so formalized that it conveyed no menace at all. “Also, we would be glad of any work your people might give us while we are here.”
At the mention of their business, he seemed to relax. The scowl departed. “Are you taken care of?” he asked in a more pleasant voice.
Olly looked at Abasio and he at her.
“Taken care of?” Abasio asked.
The man frowned again. “Cut. Fixed. Neutered. Altered. Do you have a certificate issued by the Mankind Management Group saying you are permitted to enter our country?”
Mutely, Olly shook her head.
“Are we supposed to be?” Abasio gaped.
“Must be,” said the man. He made the hideous face once more, then said calmly, “I will have tea.”
He s
at down cross-legged beside the fire and held out his hand. Olly put a mug of tea into it, her own minty brew of monarda, catnip, and wild rose hips. He sipped once, twice, then smiled. “Good,” he said, setting down the cup. He burrowed into his loincloth, coming up with a small notebook. He drew a pencil from among the feathers behind one ear.
“Now. First things first. Have you seen any monsters? Where, when, and how many?”
Olly shuddered as she replied. “We saw two big ogres. About—what was it, Sonny? Three days back?”
“Three nights,” he verified. “The moon was almost full. They fought with some … walkers. We’re not positive, but we think one ogre and two walkers got killed.”
“They didn’t threaten you?” the feathered warrior asked, putting down the pencil to pick up the tea once more.
“We hid,” said Abasio. “I don’t think they saw us.…” He was going to go on with the story, but his feathered interrogator gave him no opportunity.
“What animals have you seen?” he asked.
“We saw bear,” Abasio offered. “I think Fish in the streams. Raccoon. Squirrels, different kinds. Little stripey ones, mostly. Rabbit All kinds of birds And a number of big deer, big as a cow.”
“Elk,” said the feathered person with a pleased expression, making notes before tucking away pencil and notebook and settling himself as though to stay awhile. “Now, it’s clear you haven’t been here before.”
They nodded agreement as they sipped their own mugs, glad of the warmth, for the sun had sunk below the buttes and chill shadow flowed over the valley, leaving light only on the silver-pink lines of rimrock high above them.
The visitor said, “Then I’ll enlighten you It is the ruling of the Mankind Management Group that there be no obscenity in our land.”
“In Artemisia?” asked Olly.
He laughed. “You say Artemisia. That name is a kind of joke, for our country is called Land of the Sages, meaning land of the wise, but another name for a kind of sage, which is a plant that grows throughout our land, is artemisia. You see? A joke. In my own old language, the country is called the Sacred Land in words you cannot pronounce. No matter. In Sages’ Land we have no nonsense, no children without proper preparation and care. No sexual diseases passed about to kill us or our children.”
“We have to be—neutered in order to enter?” Olly asked, remembering certain things Oracle had told her.
“Examined, certainly. Then neutered, or implanted, or properly outfitted. Surely you have heard of this! Our customs are well known.”
“I’ve heard of it,” Olly admitted. Oracle had told her.
“No one may impregnate or become impregnated in the Sacred Land without a certificate from the Mankind Management Group No one may spread disease.” He nodded to himself in approval of this arrangement. “We have none of your IDDIs in our land, and none of your little misborns, either.”
“That’s remarkable,” murmured Olly.
He bowed slightly, accepting this as praise. “My name, by the way, is Black Owl.”
“How do you do,” said Olly.
Abasio merely nodded, trying to keep from showing on his face what he felt. In his own case it was absolutely unnecessary to do anything at all. No cutting, neutering, implanting necessary. He was no threat. He could hardly remember, in fact, if he had ever been a threat.
“How is this matter to be accomplished?” Olly was asking.
Black Owl hunkered down. “Since you have no certificate, you must come to the gate where someone will examine your health and discuss your choices. There are various ways of assuring you do no harm. There is a belt thing to be locked on. Most uncomfortable and unsanitary, in my opinion, though some who are only traveling through prefer them.”
“I would not like that,” grated Abasio.
Black Owl interrupted, one hand held out as though to silence him. “Or, members of the Clan of Wide Mountain may travel with you to certify no indecency is done. This is a very expensive alternative! The Wide Mountain women do not work cheap.”
Abasio made a face and looked as though about to protest. Olly shook her head at him warningly.
“Some people are distressed,” said Black Owl impassively, leaning forward to catch Abasio’s eyes. “The people from the west who call themselves holy, they always hire escorts, for it is against the faith of the Guardians to be altered. They spend their lives resisting their appetites. A great waste of effort, to my mind. Also, very stressful.” He drank more tea. “We in Artemisia control stress and also our numbers, but we do not interfere with our enjoyments.”
“Ha,” snorted Abasio.
“Truly.” Black Owl patted him on the knee, then pointed to his own shoulder. “See, I have an implant. Most men choose to be cut, but me, I am a sissy. I do not like the knife.” He laughed silently. “Still, I enjoy making p’nash very much.”
“P’nash?” asked Olly.
“Crotch music,” he said, smiling at her. “You know!” He made a graphic motion with both hands. “P’nash.”
Olly reddened.
“We’re—we’re man and wife,” said Abasio in a gravelly voice. “We shouldn’t have to have—”
“In your own land, wherever that is, no, of course. I understand. There you pretend to be as the wolf, as the goose, mated for your whole life. It is a pretty pretense to be faithful as these creatures are faithful, but we men are more like the lion, the dolphin, or the promiscuous apes, our closest kin, are we not? Sex would be less troublesome had we descended from geese or wolves, but it was not so.”
He sighed dramatically. “Our Sages know man cannot legislate behavior, so we must accomplish by good sense and custom what nature and law will not do for us! In our country there are no mans and wifes. Only protected women, too young yet for childbearing; readying women, who will have one or two very soon, while they are young and strong; new mamas, altered women, altered men, and the Quab-dus, the men who have been selected to father babies.” He shook his head. “Such a burden for them. Though they too are young, with the appetites of youth, they may not overeat. They may not drink cider. They have supervised exercise, much sleep. No staying up late at the dances. No preference among partners.” He rolled his eyes in exaggerated horror at this regimen. “Often I give thanks I am no longer a Quab-dus.”
“How do they get chosen?” asked Abasio, open-mouthed.
Black Owl shrugged. “It is up to the Management Group, the Wide Mountain women. Since women must bear, women must choose!” He nodded at them firmly. “So, do you come to the gate?”
“I need the library that’s inside Artemisia,” murmured Olly to Abasio.
“I know,” he growled in return. “And I need to—go with you.” Regardless of his other problems, he still wanted to be with her. He hated the idea of someone fiddling about with his sex, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed this matter of altering or neutering might actually increase their safety! Surely no ganger sent by the Old Chief would consent to this business! They would stop at the border, presuming they ever tracked him this far.
“I guess we’ll go with you to the gate,” he said. “Though we’d like to have supper first.”
“No, no. Take your time,” said Black Owl with an open-handed gesture of permission. “The gate closes at sunset, so you would have to stay outside until morning regardless. We have you on our border viewer. So long as you come toward us at the gate, no one will bother you. You go any other where, we will find you!” He made an explosive gesture with both arms.
“Border viewer?” Olly asked.
“A thing we have, made in an Edge, I am told. We trade food and wool to the Edges, in manland. We trade also with the Place of Power.”
Place of Power! Olly cast a quick look in Abasio’s direction, but he had paid no attention to the reference. She opened her mouth and shut it again. Perhaps now was not the best time to ask questions.
Black Owl was continuing, “It protects us well. We lock it on you, it f
ollows you, we follow it, so best you stay put!” He laughed immoderately.
“We’ll stay here tonight, then,” said Olly in a carefully neutral tone. “That’ll give us a little time to get used to the idea.”
“You will get used to it. I understand. Many people feel so.” Black Owl put down his mug with a little bow, leaped upon his horse, made it rear up dramatically, and rode off in a great jangle of bells.
“Well,” Abasio remarked uncomfortably. “I suppose we have no alternative.”
He sounded so forlorn that she got up and hugged him. “It’s only temporary.”
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” he growled, stepping away from her.
She looked up at him, confused.
He cried, “You don’t mean anything by it! You treat me as you would … a brother.”
“Of course I mean something by it! I mean you are my friend!” She came close to him again, touching his face, his shoulder. “Abasio—Sonny. Isn’t all this complicated enough without your being—like that!”
He gritted his teeth. Here she was, looking at him tenderly, one hand on his shoulder, smelling like … woman, sweaty from the sun, her hard little hand feeling like another sun, spreading warmth throughout his body. He had been conscious of her breasts when she hugged him, totally aware of that yielding and entrancing softness. Associations had engulfed him, other such softnesses, more or less yielding, and yet nothing had stirred. In his mind he desired her constantly. In his body he could not. And it had been weeks that he’d been this way!
She, meantime, spent half her waking hours lusting after him, in a formless kind of way. She had resolved not to mention this to him, for her prophecy spoke of an only child; her current status was a child’s status; until that part of her life had been discovered, she must not do anything that would change her status from that of child to something else. Lover, perhaps. Or adult. Or mother It was one of those patterns that she recognized without understanding.
A Plague of Angels Page 30
