by Felix Gilman
He waited.
—Your deliberations cannot take this long, or consume your attention so fully. You are not deliberative creatures. You lied to me. You cannot reach out here. Or you have abandoned me.
He was alone in his head.
—Well, then.
He reminded himself that he was happy to be alone.
There were no further incidents that day, or the next. Sage gave way to shimmering terraces of ash-white leafless aspens, then to a thick dark forest of some stout evergreen neither of them could name. The riverbed widened then narrowed again, and continued westward. There was a tremendous noise of rushing water from the south, over the hills, but the gorge continued dry. The sun set early the first day, and the moon was swollen as if it were crashing to earth. The next night, it seemed the sun would never set at all—though it seemed, even while the sky was still hot and blue, that the stars were crowding impatiently at the edge of vision.
The General did not speak all day, despite Liv’s efforts. She read to him from the Child’s History, she questioned him regarding his system of Virtues and his theories of politics, she criticized his tactics, she talked gently of nothing in particular—he didn’t respond.
They had no idea of time. Liv’s golden watch was still not working; Creedmoor was used to telling the time by the sun, which was proving itself unreliable. So they stopped when they had to—that is, whenever the General could take no more. It usually fell to Liv to remind Creedmoor of the old man’s frailty. Creedmoor grumbled but deferred to her expertise.
Water came and went, according to no rhyme or reason that Liv could discern. Some days the valley walls glittered with a bright web of spring-water rivulets and there were clear pools at their feet. Some days the valley was dry as old bones, the parched earth hard as paving stones. Sometimes days went by waterless, and Liv could share just a few rationed sips of stale water each day with the General, who sickened. . . . Creedmoor’s devil pact sustained him, it seemed, and he went without water with no obvious ill effects save, after the third day, a reddening and contraction of the pupils and a darkening of the skin toward the shade of old blood. But if they pressed on, the water would return, and there would be enough and more than enough, and plant matter to eat, and sometimes a rabbit or thing sufficiently like a rabbit. Water’s secret currents pulsed and gathered in the earth, sometimes receding, sometimes surging with life. It came to seem as if time, too, surged and receded—the moon overhead sometimes full and ocean blue, sometimes a narrow slit of ice—as if sometimes the riverbed valley remembered its youth, and sometimes it sank into bitter old age. Some days it was a friend and some days an enemy. There was nothing to be done about it but to press on and hope for the best.
“Interesting,” Creedmoor observed.
Light spilled down the valley from a red sun in the west, risen early and hung defiantly low. Long mountain shadows lunged out to meet them. The dry riverbed burned like brass in the sun; the cracks in the mud were a stark lacework of shadow. Even Creedmoor, who could, in normal circumstances, stare into the sun till the damn thing set, had to cover his eyes to look down the valley ahead. “Interesting,” he repeated.
Liv, eyes screwed half-closed and downcast, did not respond. Creedmoor appeared somewhat annoyed, and went silent.
It was another hour’s trek before Liv could see them. First as four long black lines of shadow running down the valley floor toward them. Then as four bleached-white sticks poking up out of the mud in the middle of the valley. Lastly, when they were almost on top of them, as five rough wooden grave-markers.
The markers were wrist-thick branches, cut and stripped white. Three still stood straight. One tilted. One had fallen and was half-buried by dust. Beneath the markers were five shallow mounds of mud and clay.
Three were draped with medals, most of which had fallen on the ground when their ribbons rotted through. On one the words MOTHER and WIFE and DAUGHTER and TEACHER were carved; there was a silver necklace wound round it, held in place by rusting wire. An old yellow book, flayed almost to chalk or dust by time, lay beneath a fourth grave.
“These are not Hillfolk graves.”
“No, Liv. We’ll make a frontierswoman of you yet. In fact, the Folk do not exactly bury their dead as we do, but take them deep into their warrens under the rock; I do not know what happens next; I’ve had dealings with them, but no outsider sees the Rebirth.” He lifted a medal off one of the sticks and tossed it up and caught it. “These are the graves of men and women of the Red Valley Republic. We passed another grave site a few days ago, but it was unmarked and I saw no reason to trouble you with thoughts of death. I imagine those graves were of the same party. We are not the first to explore this valley.”
“Clearly not, Mr. Creedmoor. What were they doing here?”
“Deserters, perhaps. Though the Republic’s was not an army much plagued by deserters. I suppose this valley recommended itself to them just as it did to us—as a clear path west, and away from the world and its wars.”
“Maybe they fled the Republic’s fall.”
“Maybe. In the years after the fall, there were purges. I would have fled.”
“When did they pass?”
“Ten, twenty years ago, perhaps?”
“Are you sure? So long ago?”
“Yes, Liv. I can smell them. Faintly, but I smell them. Many years and long gone. We are alone. Never fear.” He smiled.
The General, shuffling, approached the graves. He knelt, creaking, and reached a shaking finger down to the book on the grave mound. He turned its ancient pages to dust. He whimpered.
Creedmoor came and stood over him. He rubbed the grave medal against his shirt until the brass glinted again. “But let’s talk, old-timer: Do you miss your people?”
Creedmoor held the medal in front of the General’s eyes and let it shine. The General flinched but did not pull away. “Do you miss your old empire? Locked away in that ruined head of yours, do you dream of the ruin of your empire? Does it hurt?”
Liv felt a sudden sickness; a sudden fierce rush of protectiveness toward her charge; an urge to strike Creedmoor’s smirking face. . . . She swallowed it down bitterly and said only, “Do please leave him alone, Mr. Creedmoor. You cannot torment him into good health.”
He shrugged, spun the medal on his knuckles and into his pocket. “You’re the expert, of course, ma’am.”
Three days later, Liv saw, carved on the side of a white fang of rock in the riverbed, the words ONE HUNDRED DAYS OUT and the date 1870. No other words; no other signs of life. Creedmoor shrugged.
Creedmoor whistled a song, over and over. It was a pretty little melody, though his tone was flat.
“Do you sing, at all, Liv?”
“I do not, Mr. Creedmoor.”
“Can you recite any poetry?”
“I do not believe that I can.”
“The wilderness stirs nothing in you? No recollection of some words you treasured as a child? No instinct of song?”
“If you kidnapped me for my musical talents, perhaps you should let me go now.”
“No going back now, Liv; we’re in this together. But it will be a long journey if I must make all the music.”
Liv stumbled over a dry root snaking through the dirt, and wrenched her hip. Creedmoor, in a generous mood, announced an early end to the day’s trek. They watched the sun go down over the mountains and the valley flood with red shadows.
“Do you know this game, Liv? My name begins with R. Who am I? You must ask me questions, you see. I am someone of great renown; you’ll soon guess me. It’s a guessing game.”
R proved to be Richard the Red Fox, who was a famous gambler, possibly fictional, of whom Liv had never heard. In fact, it turned out that Liv and Creedmoor knew hardly a single famous man or woman in common. The rogues and adventurers and killers and monsters and generals of Creedmoor’s world meant nothing to her; while the statesmen and scientists and philosophers of the old North bored Creedmoor—even thei
r names bored him. Hardly surprising, Creedmoor conceded; it was a very big lonely world, but marvelously full of strangeness and renown. “As it happens, Liv, I myself have a certain renown. I do not collect my clippings, that would be vulgar, but I was much noticed in reports of the Battle of Akeley Wood. There’s a story the old soldiers still tell. . . .”
The sun was a long time setting. All Creedmoor’s stories were horrible: battles, crimes, murders, cheap tricks, and lies. Liv paid no attention to his words, but listened to his tone, which was uncertain, flickering—a mixture of pride and shame, sentimentality and cynicism. He was performing—whether for her benefit or his own, she couldn’t tell.
“Creedmoor?”
“. . . now, one story that’s never been credited to my fame is the matter of the Keaton City mob, whose triumphs over the lawmen were written up in all the newspapers, but I appeared only under the alias John Circus, which I was using at the time—”
“Creedmoor.”
“Yes, Liv?”
“Why should I help you? Suppose I can heal the General—which I cannot—why should I? What will you do with him?”
“You’ll heal him because I told you to, Liv.”
“If I refused?”
He looked genuinely intrigued. “I wonder. Who knows what I might do?”
“I don’t believe you would harm me.”
“I can’t imagine why you think that, but you’re the expert. Is that your diagnosis of me?”
“Yes, Creedmoor.”
She kept her voice calm. In fact, she had no idea what Creedmoor might do. She hoped he might be convinced, or at least confused. Something about him seemed uncertain.
“Well, Doctor, I’m sorry but I can’t pay you for it. How about this: You’ll heal the old man, if you can, threats or no threats, because you are a healer, and a good person, or at least a conscientious one?”
“What would you do with him, Creedmoor?”
“You wouldn’t? Cold, unfeeling. I misjudged you.”
“What are you making me a party to? What would you do with him?”
“I would do nothing, Liv. Hand him over, wash my hands of it, go get drunk. I am no strategist.”
“There would be war?”
“There’s always War.”
“But you think he would make you stronger. You’ve expended great effort to recover him. Why? Does he know something? Do you think he can lead you . . . but to what? You’ll launch new attacks? You will raise new armies? You’ll make new incursions into the Line’s lands?”
“We are losing, Liv.” Creedmoor flinched for a moment, as if expecting a blow. It seemed not to come. He continued.
“We are falling back everywhere. We have always been falling back. We were falling back when I”—he patted the grip of his weapon—“took up the Cause. Indeed, that was the year that the Line razed our stronghold of Logtown and dragged its Baron’s body back to Harrow Cross, chained spread-eagled and still breathing, in the poison smoke, chained to the Engine’s black cowl. It made an impression, believe me. It was in all the newspapers. So, no, I do not imagine that we will launch new attacks. Apparently this man once saw something important, or heard something, or knows something. Some secret. The world is full of secrets. Maybe—maybe—what he has in his memory could help us slow the Line’s advance. Not stop it. That’s all I would dare hope for. We did not come to the service of the Gun because we wanted to enjoy victory, but because we wanted to lose magnificently.”
Creedmoor looked at the General—sleeping, bony legs curled like a dog, rope around his ankle, thinner and frailer now even than he had been when they left the House—and he shook his head. “Or this may very well be pointless. It would not be the first pointless mission my masters have given me.”
Liv looked at Creedmoor in surprise. He shrugged and said, “The Guns are mad, Liv.” Again, he flinched. Liv wondered if he knew he was doing it.
“Quite mad. Mad as anything in the world, bless ’em; madder even than the Line, whose purpose is at least consistent. Mad as snakes.”
“Why do you serve them, then, Mr. Creedmoor?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Why do you serve them?”
“Because if I disobey my friend here, I get the Goad; you cannot imagine the Goad, Liv.”
“No, Mr. Creedmoor, I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Liv.” He sighed. “They told me”—he flinched again—“They told me that the secret is a weapon that can kill the Line. A Folk weapon. Something that can kill immortal spirits. Such as, for instance, the Engines of the Line, who for four hundred years we have sabotaged, and exploded, and destroyed, and sent to hell, and back they come inexorably five or ten years later, angrier and greedier than ever.”
“A weapon.”
“Of sorts. Something of the First Folk.”
“Magic. Superstition. A delusion. Your problems are not so neatly solved. Your masters are a form of madness; you cannot wish them away.”
“A cure, then, perhaps. A cure for madness.”
“Perhaps. And your masters, too? Can it cure the world of them, too?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. Besides, they were probably just lying to me.”
His expression was unreadable. Did he mean anything he was saying?
“Creedmoor. When you took up the Cause, how old were you?”
Creedmoor stared at her long and hard. Then he winked. “Oh no, Doctor. We will not be playing that game. I am quite healthy in my mind, thank you. Or so scarred as to be beyond your help, perhaps. One or the other. Time to sleep, I think, in any case.” He lay down with his back to her.
The General whimpered in the cold. She went to sit by him.
His stick-thin old limbs twisted uncomfortably. She held him and helped him settle into stillness.
His fierce eyes glared upward, as if challenging the stars.
“Too good for this world,” she said, surprising herself; then she repeated it. “Yes.”
There was dry mud in the General’s tangled beard.
“This is a mad world,” she said.
The General muttered, but she could not catch the words.
“How glorious your Republic must have been. I wish you could tell me of it.”
She opened the Child’s History to the chapter recounting the founding of the Republic. Much of it was illegible—swollen and smeared by the rains and now by black mold—but she was able to read:
The signing of the Charter was an occasion of simple ceremony. No pomp or ritual was called for. The principles of the Charter, as you have learned, were derived from plain good sense, and from natural reason. There was no call for the blessing of any prince or priest or power. Therefore the signers met by the banks of the Red River, among reeds and rushes, in the clear light of noon on a quite ordinary summer’s day in the year ’46. “A jolly day for it,” laughed President Bellow, as his manservant passed him his pen. . . .
The General fell asleep.
He was shivering; she lay against him to share their warmth.
The next morning there was a great crashing from the south slope; the trees threshed and shuddered and tore. Birds barreled up from the branches in terror. And three immense bears—black and frothing at the mouth—a wedding-dress froth, thick and swaying and glistening—came roaring out of the forest.
They had the most terrible red eyes. They had claws like stone spearheads. They were covered in something that was not fur but long, swaying, heaving black hair, oily and liquid.
They were, but for the Engine that had carried her West, the largest and most terrible creatures Liv had ever seen. They could not possibly be natural-born animals.
She stiffened her spine and refused to look away—another illusion, another horrible trick of this horrible valley!
Creedmoor fired three shots.
The first caught one of the bears in its great head, as it reared. The skull was obliterated: the black body swayed and shuddered and flung ragged bloody ropey
spew from its vacant shoulders. The second shot caught another bear in its side and opened up the architecture of its chest so that Liv could see the curve of its bloody bones and the bright pumping engines of its organs. It ran for a few yards farther then fell with a thud. With the third shot—it was as if Creedmoor, having experimented, had found the precise minimum of force to expend—though all three shots had been fired within a fraction of a second—Creedmoor caught the third bear in its left eye and that wild red orb burst into a brief neat spurt of blood, then blackness, and the body slumped limply to the ground.
It was all over before Liv could scream; so instead she breathed deeply and sat down on the mud.
Creedmoor holstered his weapon.
The bodies of the bears did not disappear. They did not neatly resolve themselves into rocks or shadows. They did not in any way confess their unreality. Instead they lay pouring out blood and stink and very quickly attracted flies.
“This game,” Creedmoor said, “is rapidly ceasing to amuse.”
CHAPTER 32
LIBERATION
The next night was freezing cold. Creedmoor built a fire out of stacked branches and stones, like the pyre he’d built for his dead comrades, and stared into it, hat pulled down over his eyes.
It had been some time since Liv had thought of her nerve tonic. She recalled the sweet metallic scent of it suddenly—something in the fire’s smoke triggered the memory—and for a moment, she felt a deep sad craving. It passed quickly. She set the thought aside. Her nerves felt—oddly—quite healthy.
The General had been in good form during the warmth of the day. His tongue was loosening somewhat as they went west; Liv thought the fresh air and activity were doing him good. He’d even responded to some of her questions, albeit only to weave her words into the nonsense of the fairy story he was telling. (A bird; two squabbling brothers; an endless journey into winter.) It made Liv smile and laugh to see it; she held him and he wheezed with what seemed to be happiness. Creedmoor was distant all the day, lost in thought, and Liv and the General were alone, and almost happy. But when the cold came suddenly down, the General went silent. He curled himself up in simple animal pain and whimpered at the outrage of it. He flinched at Liv’s touch, and her heart broke. She withdrew from him and huddled by the fire and rubbed her legs—which were thinner now and wiry, like the legs of a stranger who’d led a harder life than the one she was meant for.
