The Burning Road

by Ann Benson

  “They should. We should all be nervous. About a lot of things.”

  And when the second ambulance passed them a few minutes later, she whispered, “This is not a test.”

  “No. But we are all going to be tested.”

  He would not tell her where he was taking her. “I want it to be a surprise,” he said.

  Janie wondered how she could be any more surprised than she already was.

  “Just please trust me,” he said.

  Oh, how I want to … but …

  She picked up the small bag at her feet and placed it on her lap. She clutched it protectively to her and said, “You know, this is just about all I still have in the world. A few clothes back at your house, and the things I put in your safe, but that’s about it.”

  After a pause, Tom said, “Do you miss everything?”

  It seemed a silly question to her. “I miss the familiarity of it all.”

  “I think things are going to feel a little unfamiliar for all of us for a while. Until this cloud passes again.”

  “You make it sound like you’re sure it will pass.”

  “Everything passes. Question is, when.”

  Please, oh, please, let this distrust pass, and quickly. She leaned back against the headrest and closed her eyes as the car moved through the thickening darkness. “There is something I’ll miss,” she said after a minute.

  “What?”

  “My garden. I’ve put a lot of years into making it my own. I’ll miss it next spring if I don’t rebuild there.”

  “You probably won t.”

  She looked at him curiously. “What makes you think that?”

  “I don’t think you’ll be able to, at least not next spring. If DR SAM comes back with even half the force it had last time, rebuilding your house will be the last thing you’ll worry about.”

  “You’re scaring me, Tom.”

  “I mean to.”

  Janie stayed quiet for a moment after that, then said, “I’d feel a lot better if you’d tell me where we’re going.”

  “Almost there,” he said. He pointed ahead to a road sign emerging from the darkness of the road.

  The headlights lit it, made it glow. It said, BURNING ROAD, 5 MILES.

  Shocked and dumbfounded, Janie stared at the assembly of people who greeted her, some familiar, some unknown, at least by appearance. When she found her voice again, she whispered, “I don’t get it. Did I just walk into Atlas Shrugged?”

  John Sandhaus looked around the room, a huge grin on his face, then brought his gaze back to Janie again. “No architects, no robber barons.” He glanced at Kristina. “You see any?”

  “No,” the girl said, “but now I don’t get it.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Janie said. “You’re too young. But you’ll read the book someday. From the way things seem to be shaping up, I’m guessing you’ll have time this winter.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I am just so—stunned by this.”

  She looked from face to face: John Sandhaus, his wife, Cathy, their huddled children, hanging on their parents’ legs. Kristina, looking youthfully eager. Linda Horn—the butterfly lady—serene and regal, and beside her a man Janie took to be her husband.

  Another man who’d stayed off to one side now came forward and offered his hand. “Jason Davis,” he said. “Former owner of this fair establishment.”

  “Former?”

  All eyes went to Tom. “And still the owner of record, as far as the outside world is concerned,” Tom said. He put a hand gently on Janie’s shoulder. “Welcome to Camp Meir.”

  Janie looked back at Jason Davis again. “What would you have done if I’d said I wanted to come see this place when you asked?”

  “I’d have made the arrangements,” he said. “We can make it look pretty rustic when we want to.”

  The room they were in, which had obviously once been the central meeting hall, was anything but rustic. It had a peaked ceiling with skylights and quiet fans suspended from long supports. They were twirling rhythmically overhead, fluttering the leaves of the plants as if they’d been touched by a light and tender breeze. But all along the center ridge of the ceiling, and all along the edge where the walls met the sloped roof, there were drapes, rolled and tied, no doubt part of some elaborate set that could be activated quickly to fool a surprise visitor. There were windows everywhere, separated by just enough wall to slide them into if necessary. The air had the same faultless climate that she’d experienced in Linda Horn’s cabin in the woods, cooler than her skin and just perfectly moist.

  She turned toward the former camp nurse. “No butterflies?”

  “I really can’t bring them until we’re sure we won’t be opening up wide anymore. But I will, when the time comes.”

  “Soon, I think,” Janie said.

  Linda made a simple nod of her head. Her voice was subdued. “I think you might be right.”

  Then Janie turned to Tom. “You keep surprising me.”

  “I’m not done yet.”

  “I believe you.” She let her eyes wander around the room again, whispering, “Incredible,” as she took in the cavernous space. “So,” she said when her gaze came to rest on Tom again, “is this that utopian paradise you were talking about, where we’ll all hide out to weather the coming plague?”

  The question got a nervous little laugh from the assembled.

  But Tom’s answer was deadly serious. “Yes, in fact, it is.”

  31

  It was decided, after much pained and heated debate, that the entire army would assemble in the morning and go to the proposed meeting place, and wait there in the hope that Karle would show or that Navarre would lead his troops out. So the lieutenants went out to the meadow to speak to the soldiers, to tell them that Karle had not returned, to advise them that when the bugler next gave the call it would be well before dawn, and that they should be prepared to rise and take their last bits of food and water, and gather their weapons and armor for the short march to the Compiègne Road.

  But Kate would not go to bed; she sat on a hill overlooking the road and waited in the darkness, listening for the pounding of his horse, the most precious sound she could hope to hear. She would not hear of abandoning her watch, and finally, in keeping with his promise to Karle, Alejandro took her by the arm and literally dragged her back to the longhouse.

  There he wiped away her tears and held her in his arms until her sobbing finally stopped, and she fell asleep against his shoulder from sheer, draining exhaustion. And as her heart broke and her hopes dissipated, so did his. Who knew this fathering would never end? he thought as he cradled the woman-child against his breast, feeling every gnaw of her pain as if it were his own. Who could predict that the daughter, not even of his own blood, would forever own such a commanding piece of him?

  Pieces of him were scattered all over Europa. He had left a piece in Cervere, his hometown in the starkly beautiful Aragon region of Spain. A good piece of his heart lay in England, with Adele, and in Avignon, where he had last seen Hernandez, and where he now hoped, against all reason, that his aging mother and father had found safety. A resentful piece of his mind rested in Paris, with the despised but admired de Chauliac, and would forever call to him against his will. And here, on his shoulder, was the girl who owned the biggest piece of all. The piece that could finally break him.

  He closed his eyes, and propped against a mound of straw, he dozed, his arms tightly around his pregnant daughter, whose husband was now in the hands of a man who had proved himself in the past to resort to the most despicable sort of savagery to get what he wanted. He dreamed, in his half-sleep, of Carlos Alderón, but this time, instead of himself, the giant blacksmith was chasing Guillaume Karle.

  The clarion called in what felt like an instant, and he jolted awake from his short sleep to find Kate still leaning against him. Carefully, he pulled himself away from her and laid her down on the straw. He stripped away his shirt and washed himself, and then dressed in his roughest, stur
diest clothes. He took one last look at the contents of his physician’s bag, and found it wanting in fine implements, but in general adequate for the quick attention required by the wounds of war. He checked the pile of bandages and wished it were quadruple what it stood. He looked in every vessel and pot and cistern to see that they were full of clean, filtered water. He looked to the ceiling and made note of the herbs that would promote healing and diminish pain. He checked his supply of laudanum and sighed in deep worry. And when he was satisfied that the preparations were as complete as they could possibly be, he wet a cloth in clean water and wiped the crusted tears from his daughter’s eyes, and as he did so she awakened.

  Her first pained words were “Has he returned?” Alejandro put a gentle hand on her forehead and smoothed back her hair. He shook his head sadly. “No, daughter, he has not.”

  She said nothing, but rose up and went about her own brief toilette. On the stable side of the longhouse they heard the comings and goings of the troops as they took their simple arms from the store. Lieutenants and garrison leaders rode in and out and among the troops, instructing them how to line up, and how to shape those lines into fighting formations. Alejandro and Kate came out of the longhouse as the army was just beginning to move. As one of the lieutenants rode by, Alejandro stopped him and said, “If we come to battle, bring only those wounded who might be saved to the longhouse. We have not the space to take in a man who will only soak the straw with his blood and then expire.”

  The lieutenant nodded and said he would spread the word among his fellows, then he rode to the beginning of the formation to join his compatriots.

  “We shall watch from the hill,” Kate said, and before he could protest, she was drawing Alejandro along by the hand. If he closed his eyes, he could feel her hand grow smaller, and his own less rough, and the sound of marching was replaced by the sound of her childish laughter. But when he opened them again, the sights and sounds of impending war came crashing in, forcing his face into an involuntary grimace. They ran alongside the advancing troops, and separated from them only when they came to the path that led to the peak. They hurried through the cool damp woods until they came to the pinnacle, there to wait and watch.

  And when finally assembled, Guillaume Karle’s armée des Jacques was a breathtaking and awesome sight. One could not tell, on first glance, that they were little more than dressed-up paupers, for they held their heads high and their weapons ready and waved their ragged banners and shouted passionate slogans of war. At the head of the long phalanx were the riders with their lances, and behind them the spearsmen. Following the spears were the archers with their rough bows, and after that the men on foot who carried swords. They in turn were followed by those who had only clubs, or maces roughly fashioned, and at the tail end, their number greatest of all, were the men who had nothing but knives and their bare hands.

  As the sun came over the treetops, it settled on this half-mile of humanity, who waited, in near silence, in trembling readiness, for their king to return.

  Before the sun had completely cleared the tallest of the trees, the call came from one of the lookouts.

  “Army approaching!”

  A buzz of excitement started at the beginning of the rebel assembly and worked its way steadily backward until even the lowest clubman knew that Charles of Navarre was leading his troops in their direction.

  And from their perch on the hill, Kate and Alejandro saw the army of Navarre coming down the road, but at its front was a separate party of six or seven men on horses. It seemed an eternity until the party came close enough for any detail to be seen. Alejandro cupped his hands around his eyes, but it did not do enough to sharpen his vision.

  “I cannot see yet, Père!” Kate cried.

  “Nor can I! They are still too far. But wait … something is happening, I think.” He shaded his eyes more carefully. “The army itself is coming to a halt. The smaller party is moving forward still.”

  His vision had always been better than hers—a bit of difficulty in seeing things far away seemed to run in her bloodline, and it had touched her, though not as cruelly as some others. And so Alejandro remained quiet, saying nothing of his growing sense of dread. The flag of the Baron de Coucy was held high by a well-armored standard bearer, and behind him rode a young man whom Alejandro took to be the Baron himself. There were three other riders, all beautifully horsed and handsomely armed with swords and maces and spears. And amid them all was Guillaume Karle. They had given him a plumed helmet. Alejandro held his breath and watched.

  But soon enough the troops themselves saw what Alejandro wished to keep from his daughter, and began to shout, “Vive le roi des Jacques!” She clung to his arm and begged for details. “Tell me, Père! Oh, curse my deficiency of vision!”

  “They are saying Karle is among them, daughter,” he whispered, “and I think it true.”

  She said not a word, but turned and ran down the hill, giving him no choice but to follow.

  When they reached the head of the phalanx the lieutenants were waiting, their horses prancing nervously, and watching the small party as it slowly advanced. Why do they not just ride forth boldly? Alejandro wondered. The lieutenants seemed as confused as he, but wisely held their troops in readiness. Kate and Alejandro worked their way forward along the edge of the wood until they were in close range of the horse contingent of their own army, a position from which Kate could see for herself what happened ahead.

  The party kept advancing, slowly, pace by pace. Kate turned back to Alejandro and said happily, “Oh, Père, it is Karle! My prayers have been answered, for they have brought him back to me!” Then she faced back toward the party again.

  He put a hand on her shoulder; he could feel her trembling slightly. And then the riders stopped, all but Karle, and as they watched, breath held, the physician felt his daughter stiffen underneath his touch. He squinted for a better view; something was not right. Karle wobbled in the saddle, but his horse moved forward, almost of its own volition, as if Karle had no control of it. Alejandro drew in a breath and put his arms around Kate’s waist, clasping his two hands together. His heartbeat accelerated until he could feel it in his temples. He watched; everyone watched.

  Finally the confused animal stopped short, and Karle slumped forward. His hands seemed strangely fixed to a particular spot on the saddle. The plumed helmet came tumbling forward. It crashed to the ground and rolled around noisily, for there was nothing there to hold it on.

  Kate screamed and wailed and tried to break free of her father’s grip as the headless body of her husband was bucked around on the frightened horse, and only when several of Karle’s lieutenants rode forward to restrain the animal, shielding her view of the horrible sight, did her knees finally buckle and give. She slumped to the ground, near fainting, so Alejandro picked her up in his arms and ran through the forest edge back toward the longhouse. He crashed through the woods, his vision blurred with tears, and as he ran toward shelter he heard the clarion ring and the rebels shriek, and the pounding of horses’ hooves as Karle’s armée des Jacques surged forward to avenge the cruel slaughter of their leader. And soon Navarre’s troops could also be heard, responding to what both Navarre and Coucy would later claim was a direct attack against them though an alliance had been offered.

  The din of battle became overwhelming as Navarre’s mounted troops mixed in among the Jacques foot-soldiers. Alejandro’s throat burned with each gasping breath in his wild dash to bring Kate to safety. His chest ached, and his arms were seared with the pain of not being able to release a burden that was nearly beyond his strength; Kate was as tall as he, and it seemed to him as he hauled her forward that they might be of a weight. But his feet were miraculously sure and he finally reached the longhouse.

  He sat her down on a bench and shook her face, none too gently, to rouse her. She opened her eyes and looked up into his with the most heart-rending expression of sorrow he had ever seen. She began to wail again, so he took her in his arms and he
ld her to his chest, and tried to absorb her pain. Her body, though it was racked in sobs, felt as rigid as a corpse and would not yield to his embrace.

  The sounds of the skirmish grew closer, and Alejandro knew that before long they would be deluged with wounded, bleeding men crying out for mercy, for some of whom the best mercy would be swift death. He loosened his embrace of Kate and took her firmly by the shoulders. “Daughter,” he said, “your grief is immense. I know this. But you can be a widow tomorrow. Right now you are needed as the midwife you were educated to be.”

  “Oh, Père, oh, Père,” she sobbed, “he is gone … my husband is slain.”

  He spoke firmly, but with aching sympathy. “And he will never come back. From this moment forward that is your burden.” Then he softened his voice. “Adele has not been with me for many years. And I still feel the sting of it. But I have you. We have each other. And soon we will have your child. And we must act now to be sure that your child has a world to grow in.”

  The grief never left her face and she was terribly dazed, but she valiantly wiped away her tears and stood up, and father and daughter held each other in what would be the last quiet moments of that day. And when they let go of each other, Alejandro went to the door of the longhouse and opened it. He looked outside, through the trees toward the road, and all the breath rushed out of him.

  The piles of wounded were already two deep in the mud of the road beyond the longhouse; as they had wept inside, the wounded had either made their way back and collapsed, or were brought there and deposited. Their wails, once the door was open, could be heard clearly, and Alejandro looked back at Kate with a shake of his head. “We must treat them where they lie,” he said.

  They gathered up everything they could carry and made their way to the roadside, and one by one they began laying out the wounded in an orderly fashion, neat rows, one body close to the next. Some had already died, and those they carried to a clear spot beneath the trees, where they were just piled without regard for the proximity to the next body. Those who required immediate and extreme attention were laid in one row, those whose wounds would not kill them immediately were laid in another, and those whose wounds were beyond hope in yet another.