by Alma Boykin
The Bird of Dawning:
A Cat Among Dragons Christmas Story
Alma T. C. Boykin
© 2015 Alma T. C. Boykin
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art ©Igorzs|Dreamstime.com—
Two Planets Photo
The overwhelming smell of pine, real pine, warned Commander Rachel Na Gael to be cautious when she opened the door to the Officers’ Lounge. She managed to shift the door twenty-five or thirty centimeters before she heard it scrape on pine needles, and stopped. I think this would be an excellent time to go finish the end-of-year paperwork and filing, she decided, closing the door and sneaking down the hallway, her boots and cane making no sound on the linoleum floor. I might just clean every cabinet, organize the glassware, run calibration checks on all the equipment, and then put cones on the roses and check the caulk on the glasshouse windows. By the time she finished, it would be New Years at least and she would have avoided every hint of Christmas.
“Was that Commander Na Gael?” Major Sandra Monroe asked from the other side of the fir as Sergeant Wolfgang “Wolf” Weber and Lt. Tómas Espinoza manhandled it into the tree-stand. “A little to the left. Just a touch more, no, back to the right. Yes, hold that.” She ducked under the branches and secured the screws that held the trunk in place, then added water. She backed out on her hands and knees, accepted Espinoza’s help to stand and the three studied the tree.
“Yes, ma’am, it was,” Weber replied. He wondered if it was the American influence that had turned the modest table-top trees he grew up with into monsters like the specimen taking up a third of the lounge. The NCOs had a rather less overwhelming piece of greenery in their recreational area. Of course, he thought as he looked around, the NCOs had a modern space, unlike the faux Victorian library the Regiment’s officers used. Rumor had it that the aspidistra in the corner had strangled a junior officer several years ago and was really a hybrid with kudzu. The elk head looking morosely down from the opposite wall did not help, even with the tattered Santa hat someone had jammed onto one antler.
“At least no one has hung ornaments on the moose head. Yet,” Monroe added, making a warding-off gesture as she did.
“Moose, ma’am?”
The Canadian major pointed to the animal. “We call them moose.”
“Ah, I see, ma’am.”
Monroe looked around and nodded, fists on her hips. “Thank you, gentlemen. That’s enough for the moment.”
The trio left the officers’ lounge. Espinoza disappeared, leaving Weber and Monroe. He didn’t quite want to ask her his question, but he needed to, for the good of the Regiment and the Regiment’s xenologist. “Ah, ma’am, do you have a moment?”
“Yes, I do.” They walked to her office, carefully not looking toward the commanding officer’s door. Weber had not gotten used to Brigadier General McKendrick’s presence, and still thought of it as the late General Evelyn Jones’s space. Monroe had moved into Lt. Colonel Rahoul Khan’s former office, at least until the new executive officer, Major Tadeus Przilas, took up his full duties and she returned to North America. Monroe gestured for him to be seated, but he remained standing.
“Commander Na Gael?” she asked.
He nodded. “I’m worried, ma’am, the way she’s withdrawing from everyone again.”
Monroe ran a hand through her short, sandy-blond hair. “Col. Khan and I talked to her about that. I—” she stopped. “The bastards hurt her worse than she will admit.”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And, ma’am,” he hesitated, in part because the idea sounded so strange. “I think it’s tangled up with her mind powers somehow.”
The woman didn’t laugh. Instead she nodded in turn. “It is. You know what they did to her before they maimed her.”
Weber shifted, feeling increasingly uncomfortable as he wondered how to say what he needed to. “Yes, ma’am,” he switched to German, “Sie haben die Kommanderin vergewaltet.”
“They did. And their emotions burned into her memories of the event, making everything far more intense and painful. She told me. I’ve had, let’s say that I’ve had some experience helping women deal with the aftermath of assaults.” Monroe took a deep breath as Weber tried to imagine what Cdr. Na Gael had endured. He felt equal parts queasy and furious and wanted to kill the Traders all over again. Monroe sighed, “I wish Col. Khan had not been sent to Vienna quite so fast, but that doesn’t leave this office.”
“Understood, ma’am.” Weber thought. “What can we do to help her?”
“I don’t know.”
#
That evening at supper, Rachel was amused to find herself seated in the middle of an impromptu recitation contest. One of the Americans started the folly, as usual, quoting some poem about the woods on a snowy evening. Another junior officer, Lt. Podjowski, launched into a Polish winter ode, translating as she went. Rachel was impressed despite her morose mood. Someone tried a few lines from the Pantos but was called down by the other Brits with shouts of “Save it for later,” and “Look behind you!” Rachel rolled her eye, thinking, Thus confirming my suspicions about the results of being cooped up on a small island for too many thousands of years. The Brits are all crazy, especially when it comes to the Pantomimes, memorizing the lines and chiming in. Her fondness for certain hundred-verse drinking songs and Azdhag colonial farces was totally different, of course.
Dr. McGregor, the medical officer, stood. Everyone looked to him as he took a deep breath and began. “Some say that ever ‘gainst that season comes/ wherein our Savior’s birth is celebrated/ the bird of dawning singeth all night long./ And then they say, no spirit dares stir abroad./ The nights are wholesome. Then no planets strike. /No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,/ so hallowed and so gracious is the time.” His deep rolling voice stilled the murmur of conversation as he recited the lines from Hamlet. Rachel was not the only one to look thoughtful.
Later that night she stood in the lab, watching the stars and winter-quiet scene outside the windows and drinking tea. She’d smuggled some Azdhagi blends to Ter-Tri and savored one of the heartier brews, willing the heat from the heavy china mug into her cold hands. “Does the rooster really banish evil?” she asked the empty, dark room. Some Terran legends held that it did, the rooster’s crow warning dark things to flee before the coming of the dawn. She should ask Rahoul, he’d know. Rachel started turning to the intercom on her desk, then caught herself and covered her bad eye with one hand. “I am so stupid.” Rahoul was in Vienna. Where she’d be in a week? She peered at the large calendar above her desk. A week, from the 28th to the third of January. Logres permitting of course.
The thought called up the Power’s presence and Rachel dropped her shields. Not that they would keep the Power of the Island of the Mighty out of her mind, but she didn’t want to irk the creature by acting defensive, especially not now. It had been quite displeased with her departure to see Master Thomas, even though she’d only been gone a few hours as Earth time ran. But for once the ancient being moved through her mind with a light touch, taking in her observations and thoughts but not commandeering her body. As always, her conscious mind retreated from the creature’s presence. This time Logres followed her and she made herself establish formal contact with it.
She saw the world with a dizzying double or triple sight. Rada Ni Drako stared at the calendar on the wall of the lab and held a mug of tea. She also saw herself as Logres did, a spindle of shadow pulling in threads of energy from everywhere and nowhere as Logres channeled the energies of the cold, sleeping world. Beyond that she sensed every living creature around the Regiment’s head
quarters and on or under the land for a dozen kilometers around. As soon as she observed that, she knew that someone was walking up the hallway toward the lab despite the late hour of the evening. Logres shifted and withdrew from her conscious mind.
But it left something behind. Rachel barely had time to touch and recognized the edge of a shield before the visitor tapped on the door, hesitated, then tapped again. “Commander Na Gael?” Father Mikael Farudi asked, leaning inside the part-open door and blinking as he looked for a sign of life in the near darkness.
“Yes, Father? What can I do for you?” She tapped the micro-remote on the case of her data link and the light under the shelves above the desk turned on.
His teeth flashed white and he shook his head. “That, Rada, is my line.”
She went still at his use of her real name.
“It has been reported,” the Lebanese Anglican priest continued, “that you have gone into either hiding or hibernation. Either way, your absence from choir rehearsal was noted.” He frowned at her.
She gulped and wanted to tuck her now-missing tail between her legs. “Ah, oh dear. I’m sorry, Father, I forgot that tonight—”
His frown deepened. “You forgot.”
She nodded.
“You are not trying to pull the wool over my eyes?”
Somehow the questions made Rada feel as bad as the one and only time Command Master Sergeant D’Ivori of Krathers’ Komets had chastised her during her recruit days, when she’d complained about spending so much time on the weapons range even though she already met the qualifications. He’d never raised his voice, had never used foul language, did not question her intentions or ancestry, but still managed to leave a mark that stung four hundred years later. Father Mikael had the same gift. “No, Father.”
“You are not drinking yourself into a stupor or whatever your species does.”
She shook her head and made an emphatic negation with her strong-side hand, almost dropping the tea mug in the process. “Oh, kenga—,” she started to swear, then ducked even lower as she remembered who stood in the light of the open door. “No, Father. It’s just spice tea, from the pot in the corner by the glassware cabinet.” Rada gulped and offered, “Would you care for some?” The herbs shouldn’t be toxic to a human, she didn’t think.
“No. You are turning off the tea, setting your mug down on the desk, and coming to rehearsal. Or rehearsal will come to you, will ye, nil ye.”
She slunk down the hall behind the chaplain, feeling lower than if she’d been in the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Which was rather impressive, given how bad she’d felt a few minutes before, and the hours and days before that. Rachel had no desire for anything but to be left alone in her grey numb fog. Each time she spoke with someone, or saw humanoids, she felt memories fighting their way past the walls she tried to build.
Except, she discovered as she walked, the walls now held. Did it have something to do with Logres and the shield it had left in her mind? If it does, she thought, I should be terrified that it can do that to me without my consent. Except I consented how many hundred years ago? And if it can do that, what else can it do? No, I don’t want that answered, please.
She followed Fr. Mikael into the chapel and tried to pretend five people were not glaring at her, including one modern pagan, Colour Sgt. Morgan St. John, drafted to sing second alto because of Cpl. Grimsby’s horrible case of bronchitis. General McKendrick’s unhappy inhalation of breath and subsequent sigh boded ill for their next encounter. Even stained glass St. Michael registered his disapproval despite being otherwise busy smiting a dragon. “Let’s begin,” the chaplain said, tapping one of the few in-tune notes on the small piano in the corner.
They’d gotten through the sixth carol of the traditional nine when Rachel noticed something odd. She shifted her attention inwards and monitored her Gifts, something she rarely did consciously. She couldn’t broadcast! She almost dropped the music and missed the cue to cut off the phrase by a quarter beat. Logres had blocked her completely. It was not a “hard” block, one she could not break if she put her mind to it, but more like the shields she herself had often imposed on fledgling projective telepaths and empaths. Had she been projecting without realizing it? Or did Logres anticipate her losing control and projecting? Or was it something else entirely? As she counted beats in the music, Rachel decided that Logres had acted of its own unfathomable design. Because I do not want to contemplate any other option, especially this close to the winter Solstice. She breathed deep and launched into the descant on the precise off beat desired, earning approving nods from Captain Maria de Alba and Fr. Mikael.
Rachel slept well that night, to her surprise. Whatever Logres had done to her, it gave her breathing space. Unless she turned her mind to September’s misery, the event remained on the periphery of her mind, no longer a constant, looming evil. She could function far better than she had for months, mentally at least, and she blessed the strange, amoral creature that had given her that grace, and the God that had made said amoral creature.
Alas for her fondness for quiet, Rachel’s improvement did not go without being noticed.
“Commander Na Gael?” Major Monroe inquired after the Tuesday staff briefing. The glint in her eye did not bode well, Rachel thought.
“Ah, yes?”
“Do you have anything pressing in progress at the moment?”
Feeling cornered, Rachel started to hold her satchel up like a shield. “Noooooo.”
“Good! Come with me!” And Sandra Monroe all but pulled Rachel’s arm out of the socket hauling the xenologist down the corridors to the officers’ lounge.
What on Earth and ever other inhabited world? The door stood open and Rachel caught a glimpse of much-patched pasteboard boxes. Oh no! Decorating the tree! Before she could invent a suitable excuse, or forcibly break the acting executive officer’s grip, Monroe shoved Rachel into the lounge. “Here’s your spare set of hands, gentlemen.”
“Hang about, at least let me put my computer bag down!” Rachel protested. That she could do, once she found an empty flat spot out of the traffic lane, but Lt. Garcia barred her escape route.
“The low branches are yours, ma’am.” She started to point out that Lt. Ingmar Ragnarson stood at best a few inches taller than she did. Well, yes, but he’s not quite as flexible. I think the sarsen out in the field is more limber. Even as she thought it, Rachel’s mind reached out to the stone in question, touching the power before she could stop herself. She hauled her mind back with a wrench of effort. Ow. Three days to Solstice and she knew better than to do that sort of thing. She shook all over and started looking for the hooks for the ornaments. “Alright, where did you put the hanging wires?”
Silence. “Um.” Rachel heard the sounds of rustling in brown paper as someone rummaged around. “I think.” More hunting noise. “No, was it over . . .” She waited, one eyebrow cocked up, as the digging around grew increasingly frantic.
A bored woman sighed from behind the tree, “Try the table, beside your left elbow, Jeremy.”
“Wha—oh. Sorry.” A very sheepish young lieutenant presented Rachel with the small box.
“Thank you. Are we following a pattern?”
The woman’s voice replied, “Yes. Vertical stripes, similar shades, please.” Since the box in Rachel’s hands contained mostly blue, she shrugged and began, working bottom to top as far as she could reach. Box empty, she found a red set and started filling in that stripe. The other woman grumbled, warned a very tall someone not to get too smart about hanging things so high, and fussed impartially at everyone but Rachel. She wondered who it was, but so many new officers and others had either rotated in, or been assigned temporarily to fill gaps, that the officers’ mess felt different every morning.
Rachel worked for an hour. Then she saw her chance, while the others rummaged around in a very large box, their backs to her. She grabbed her satchel and walking cane and slipped out.
“Is she gone?” Lt. Garcia whispered.
“Yes. Pretend we never noticed,” Captain Antonia Scott whispered back. She straightened up from the box and spoke louder. “We’re supposed to ease her back into things.”
Lt. Tommy “Gun” Thompson looked the tree over and wrinkled his nose. “I think she got even with us, ma’am.”
Scott walked around to stand next to him. “She didn’t—Monroe’s going to chase her around the building with a vacuum cleaner for that.” The color stripes shifted a few centimeters to the right about half-way down the tree, just off center enough to be noticeable.
Everyone steered clear of Rachel on December twenty second. After thirty years and more, people had stopped asking “why” and just understood that unless a mission was in progress, the xenologist was not to be disturbed, especially if seen out of doors after dark. That night Rachel stood by the lone sarsen in the open field a kilometer or so away from the main building complex. Heavy wet winter clouds covered the stars and fog smothered any sounds, swallowing the light of the buildings. Rachel stared into the darkness, not seeing the grey stone and mist-twisted trees beyond. Instead her mind showed her what Logres saw, the energy streams flowing through the Isle of the Mighty. Silver ribbons wound through the fabric of the land, drawing power normally tapped by living beings and pulling it north and west, some into Wales and some into the older-than-old volcano under Edinburgh. Thirty winters had passed since Rada/Rachel had made the bargain with Logres, accepting its offer of power in exchange for serving as winter Guardian. No other Power claimed two Guardians, and Rada knew why—only Logres, oldest of the Powers and strongest, burned through Guardians so easily. How could a human tolerate such power? the tiny bit of Rada’s mind left to her wondered yet again. Or was the summer Guardian also non-human? She never asked. Rada’s awareness retreated once more, hiding as Logres stirred.
The next morning Rachel went to breakfast in the officers’ mess. General McKendrick strolled in a few minutes later and thumped into a chair two seats down from her. He began twitching as if bothered by static electricity. Sensitive? Must be, she noted. She could not feel it herself, but according to Sgt. St. John, Rachel radiated energy for several days after the winter Solstice. Given Logres’s constant presence in her head, the observation didn’t surprise the Wanderer. Only once had she tried tapping into the energies available. She’d scared herself almost spitless in the process and had not dared to repeat the experiment. Although, I wonder if I could reach Joschka mind-to-mind? She chewed her floppy, properly-undercooked bacon and considered the matter. She likely could contact him, given that the only limit on her telepathic ability seemed to be personal energy, but did she want Logres listening in? Actually, given the chaos in Schloß Drachenburg this time of year as all the children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren converged on the old castle, popping into Joschka’s mind seemed less like a good idea. And then do I want to see into his memories and feelings just now? No. And he might be in Vienna trying to finish paperwork and end-of-year business before that blasted meeting next week. If so, I most certainly do not want to be in his head, thank you! She finished her bacon and began tucking away the sausage.
