Samuel had suggested that they both go to Ariel with to deliver the artillery shells and let the armorers start their work on them. The hills were still thick with patrols of the Prophet, but Danny was sure that he and the Diné could get past them. Crispin and Stanley would stay and guard Owl Hollow.
Don had simply shrugged and agreed. For the first time in months, he had nothing urgent to take care of. He might as well make himself useful. There was little need for a lore-man in Owl Hollow.
The Diné were true to their word. Don and Samuel had traveled quietly by night and crossed the Kolaroo River to the east (upstream) of the House of Healing. Red, the pack horse, made light of his load, even though the three shells amounted to nearly 170 pounds. Pale dawn was showing over the mountains to the east as they came to the still-closed gates of Ariel.
As soon as the watch opened the gate, they followed the group that had been waiting outside through the portal and down the narrow street. They went to the north of the Jewish Quarter, which was to the right, uphill from the main street. There was little to mark it as different from the rest of the town.
Samuel had been in a talkative mood and had said much about the founding of Ariel. In fact, it was founded by refugees. Refugees had come, but not fleeing the plague, for that had burned itself out before any great movement into the area. It was during the time of troubles in the years after the plague that many were forced out of the great city to the east that still lay in ruins—called “Hightower” in recent years. Though thousands had survived the flu and the initial wave of looting and gang violence, the second wave of violence had been directed against all people of faith. Secularists dominated the survivors and led an orgy of reprisals against Jew and Christian alike. Old anti-Semitism was linked with a new hatred of Fundamentalists. Anyone known or even suspected of being one of these was bitterly persecuted and driven from their homes. Some went underground, and some were killed. Many were forced west into the mountains. Farther to the west the first New Prophet rose up and took power. He made himself a total dictator and also cruelly persecuted all that did not swear allegiance to him. Again, the people of faith were driven out.
So from west and east the refugees met at Glenwood. The surviving medical community had already begun construction of walls at the House of Healing. So the refugees decided to do the same. They moved south and built two fortified camps, which developed into cities of refuge.
One camp discovered an old marble quarry in a valley to the South. They remembered the marble when they founded the city called “Ariel” or “Lion of God.” They immediately began building walls of granite. The marble they used for decoration. Many Jews settled there, but Christians joined them as well. Handicapped people (or those that seemed different) had also been driven away, and many of these settled in Ariel.
The other camp was more to the west. They named their city “Bethuel” or “House of God.” Like Ariel, defense was the first thing on their mind. Foundations for stone walls were laid from the earliest days, even when the walls were still of wood.
Of course, not all refugees actually lived in the towns. Far from it! They settled up and down the banks of the Kolaroo River and the valley to the south. They grew wheat, vegetables, and took over the long-neglected apple orchards. Some grazed sheep and cattle in the uplands and made hay for the winter in irrigated meadows.
The towns became centers for crafts of all kinds. Both had lore-houses where scholars studied the Bible and ancient religious writings. Ariel was the more warlike, famous for crafting weapons. The little people, or “dwarves” worked in weapons shops, which started rumors that all Ariel swords were made by dwarves. Some even believed that the whole town was populated by the little people. It was far from the truth, of course, but it made a good story. Certainly, any little person seen in the land was assumed to be from Ariel, and usually he was.
Arms and armor from Ariel was considered to be the best, even though every village had a smith who usually made a few swords and spears for sale. Ariel, however, made weapons of all kinds: helms, shields, bows, crossbows, mail, breastplates, swords, daggers, and knives.
Bethuel was not as distinctive. It had no dwarves and no fame as weapon smiths. Marble it used but little. Its walls were high and strong, but the masonry was not done as skillfully. It had several inns, a daily market, and was noted for its many merchants. Many trader wagons went out from Bethuel. Woolen goods were woven there and cotton too—though the wool was shorn locally, while cotton came in by trade. Apple butter, cheeses, sausage and hams smoked over oak chips were known far and wide. “Tangy as a Bethuel Ham” was a proverb. Its churches were spacious but not extravagant. Most inhabitants claimed to be Christians though not all were devout.
All this information, and more, did Samuel recount as they rode the way to Ariel. When they entered the town, they went directly to the citadel in the town center. They knocked at the postern-gate and were recognized. But it was a quarter-hour before Enos arrived and ordered the guard to admit them.
They led their mounts across the central courtyard. Iron hooves rang on the clean cobblestones. It was behind the closed doors of a large stable that Red was unloaded and the three artillery rounds were turned over to the enthusiastic Ariel weapons smiths. Enos shook their hands warmly. At his urging, they stayed for breakfast, then went on their way.
Enos had also suggested that they stay for the annual “Christ’s Mass” celebration that would take place in three days. But Samuel wanted to celebrate the day at Owl Hollow, and Don had no mood for celebration of any kind, so they made their excuses and left.
Don still had no idea why they wanted the ancient shells in Ariel. It was clear that the smiths thought that they were valuable. He had been careful to mention to Enos of the promise to Steamboat that any valuable insights would be shared in return for their gift of the shells.
†
The face caught Don’s eye. It was young and yet old. Young, because beneath the dirt and shadows and the screen of greasy hair, he was clearly in his teens. Old, because his hollow cheeks, sunken eyes and claw-like hands were like those of the elderly.
There had been several beggars at campgrounds further up river. But the others had clearly been professionals. One had worn a patch over an eye, another had limped on crutches. Both had carried begging bowls. But this young-old boy had nothing like that. No bowl did he have, nor did he so much as hold out his hand. He just sat there by the side of the road, obviously starving or else very sick and weak. But he was not begging.
Don got down from the wagon and walked in his general direction. Their glances connected for a second, then broke away. On impulse, Don walked over to the boy and invited him to share their meal. “You look hungry,” he said, simply. “Come on, we have food enough for one more.”
Don gave the boy his hand and lifted him to his feet—and that is when he noticed the boy’s hands. They were heavily calloused, black with filth and covered with blood-edged scabs. Glancing down, he saw that the boy’s feet were bare and even more badly torn. With Don’s help, he was able to limp over to the camp where Abel and the others waited. The boy’s body felt alarmingly light. He was wearing a tattered wool blanket for a coat.
Eric and Bobby made no secret of their displeasure at Don’s guest. Don was not surprised. But he ignored them as he helped the boy to a seat next to the fire. At Don’s urging, he sat on a piece of canvas and rubbed his hands over the coals. What did surprise Don was Abel’s smile.
Still smiling, Abel filled a cup with soup and passed it to the youngster. “Eat slowly, young fellow,” he said. “Your stomach may not take much.”
“Why are we feeding this bum?” asked Eric. “He stinks and has lice.”
“I don’t think that canvas is too valuable for him to sit on,” answered Abel. “And Donald is right—we can’t stuff ourselves and let this one starve!”
&
nbsp; The young man looked up at the four of them with large, sunken eyes, and began sipping the soup without a word. Eric took both Don and Abel by an arm and drew them away from the fire. “What are you doing?” he whispered. “Don’t you think our job is hard enough? We don’t need to make it harder.”
Abel looked at Don. “Is it your thought that we should let this boy accompany us?”
Don had planned no such thing. Feeding the boy was simply an impulse, a strong one. “I just knew we had to help him,” answered Don, slowly. “But why not take him with us? One meal will only delay the inevitable. He will not survive unless he gets help.”
“I can’t believe it!” exclaimed Eric. “What are you thinking? We can’t trust him. We don’t even know his name.”
Don did not answer. He had to admit that Eric had a point. Glancing back, he saw Bobby staring over at the three of them, as he sipped his coffee. The boy had finished the soup and was wiping his mouth with his black hand.
Abel tugged at his earlobe. “Clearly he is not one of the Prophet’s men,” he mused. “No one would starve themselves to a skeleton if they had a choice.”
“Maybe not,” said Eric. “Maybe it is not my place to question you. But you must admit that taking in a stranger is a mighty big risk.”
Abel clapped a hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Of course it is your place! Your question is fair. But we follow a Master who wants us to show mercy. That will mean risks. Never forget that.”
“So you agree that we should take him along?” asked Eric, as if he could not believe his ears.
“I think a boy would give our party a different look—more like a family and less like a military unit,” said Abel, half to himself.
“We can clean him up, surely,” added Don. “But I don’t know where we can find him clothes.” He wondered what Abel meant about the “Master.” Some kind of religious thing?
“Shoes are no problem. We have an assortment of sizes for sale. And there is a bag of old clothes in the wagon. Something there might fit.” Abel walked back to the wagon and dug in a wooden chest behind the seat. “Ah! Here is some sulfur soap. I have some scissors. Let’s take him to the stream!”
The youngster put up a bit of a struggle, but Don and Eric led him down through a grove of tamarisk to a shallow pool. There they coaxed him to take off his clothes, and helped him scrub his amazingly filthy body. Abel took the clothes back and threw them on the fire. When he returned, a small bundle under his arm, the boy’s white skin was beginning to show through the caked ash and soot.
“This tunic is good homespun wool. Small enough, I think. But maybe a bit worn. The trousers are cotton. You! Boy! When you finish, try these clothes on. What’s your name, anyway?”
The lad wrinkled his brow. “Phil … Philip. I’m Philip,” he answered, hesitantly. It was the first word that Don had heard him say.
Abel came down with a pan of warm water. “Here. The river water must be freezing!”
“Well, Philip,” said Don. “You’ve only just begun. Rub more soap on that rag and go over every inch again. Scrub hard.”
It took a half hour or so, but finally Philip was scrubbed as pink as an April sunset. He toweled dry and tried on the new clothes. They were a bit large, but Abel said he would grow into them. Then Abel sat him down by the fireside and cropped his hair short with the scissors as he finished two more cups of soup and ate several thick slices of bread. When the haircut was finished, Abel rubbed a strong-smelling dark liquid into Philip’s hair.
“That should kill the head lice,” he observed . “We don’t want you to share those with us.” He smiled a kindly smile, as he drew a fine-toothed comb through the boy’s hair. Philip protested, but Abel persisted.
“I don’t see any more nits. This will have to do. You actually don’t have that much lice. They must have abandoned you! Oh—Put on these shoes.”
Philip pulled on a thick pair of woolen socks and then tried on the shoes. They fit very well. “Could I have another cup?” he asked.
“You can if your stomach is not upset,” answered Abel. Philip insisted that his stomach was fine except that he was hungry all over. So they allowed him one more cup. “But that will have to do for now. If you eat more, you will not be able to keep it down. It might even be dangerous.”
Bobby and Eric walked around to get a good look at him. “I would not have believed it,” exclaimed Bobby. “You look human.”
For two more days the wagons continued down the river road on the pavement of the ancients. The old surface was broken in many places, but in other stretches it was as smooth and flat as a table. The horses’ hooves clanked and struck fire as if they were walking on bedrock.
Philip sat on a bale of trade goods just behind the wagon seat and told them a bit of his story. He confessed that he had hit several of the tax collectors’ soldiers with bullets from his sling. Don and Abel had stared back at him in astonishment. It was hard to believe that this timid boy could have killed so much as a rabbit—much less take on a band of soldiers. Yet his tale had the ring of truth. He told about the strange warriors on the hill, which must have been Diné scouts. That part added some credibility, also. But their interest grew when he described the camp where he had been held.
“That must have been the camp of the Raiders,” said Don. “Philip, do you remember some girls being brought in as captives?”
“Yes,” answered Philip with no hesitation. “I saw a bunch of girls. Their hands were tied. One had yellow hair, and she looked right at me. But there were many others …”
“They must have got away somehow. There was a huge uproar one night, and all the guards ran around like they were crazy. Then a lot of them rode off. We heard that one guard was killed. They were all very angry. They beat us even more often. They did not even need an excuse.”
“How did you get away?” asked Abel.
“We went out all the time to gather wood. One day they were careless. On the way back to camp, when they weren’t looking, I jumped off the wagon and dropped into a gully. It was dusk, and they did not miss me at first. I doubt that they knew I was gone until they got back to camp.”
“They did not bother to watch us too closely because if one of us tried to run away, they went out with trackers and dogs. Guards would find the trail and run the person down with horses. They thought it was fun—the guards, I mean.”
“Weren’t you afraid?” asked Don.
“Of course,” answered Philip slowly. His forehead wrinkled as he tried to explain. “But I really did not care. If I escaped, good. If they caught me, I would die. But at least it would be over.”
“How did you escape the dogs and all the rest, then?”
“I escaped by not running! There were roots of sage brush forming a kind of roof to the cave. There was a damp little hole. I crawled into it and hid. I had stolen a wool blanket, wrapped around my waist. Otherwise I would have frozen. I slept, I heard the dogs baying the next day. The men were cursing them. I don’t think the dogs would have been fooled if they had let them go. But they never let the dogs go back to the wood cutting area. They must have thought that the dogs were smelling the scent we had left when we were cutting wood.”
“I forgot to tell you that when I left the first gully—the one I jumped into when I left the wagon—I walked backwards on the wagon road, back to the place we cut wood. I was very careful to smooth out my tracks for the first hundred yards or so. They probably thought I went down the little stream in the bottom of the gully. They thought I would do what the others had always done—run straight downhill towards the nearest settlement. Anyway, the trackers did not figure it out, or I would not be here.”
“I had a piece of dried meat. That is all I had to eat for two days. I did go out at night to get water to drink, but hid during the day. One day they came back and gathered wood not f
ar from where I was. I was sure that they would find me then. I almost gave up and came out. I was so hungry. It was bitter cold. I wanted to give up very much, for some reason.”
“But you didn’t,” finished Abel.
“No.”
“What happened then?” asked Don.
“Well … After the two nights of hiding, I waited through the next day and then walked away as soon as it was dark. I tried to avoid patches of snow and walked all night, but I went uphill away from the camp and the valley. I wanted to find some people and food, but I knew that would be too dangerous.”
”But you must have found some food.” said Abel.
“That was a problem. We were all starved anyway, and I was so weak that I probably only covered a few miles that first night. The nights were freezing cold. But then—well, it was almost a miracle.”
“I believe in miracles,” said Abel with a smile.
“Well, anyway, at dawn I saw some grouse. I had climbed onto a rock the size of a wagon and watched the sun come up. Several grouse came out and walked along right below me. I dropped a rock on one.”
“How did you cook it?”
“Cook it? I couldn’t cook it. I had no way to start a fire, so I broke a chip off a piece of rock and used that to dress the grouse. Then I ate it raw.”
“Then what?”
“I kept moving north, only at night. Then I gradually began to go northwest, toward home. I ate dandelions, some gooseberries. I was always hungry. I ate a frog …” His voice trailed off, and he was silent for a long while, staring ahead into nothing. The other two respected the silence for several minutes. Then Abel pulled the team to a stop.
“Let’s take a break,” he said, as he wrapped the reins around the brake lever and stepped off the wagon. They all stepped down and stretched their legs. Don had a drink of water. Eric walked up from the rear wagon with a shapeless felt hat in his hand.
The Stonegate Sword Page 35
