Exile's Children

by Angus Wells

  “Go hungry without me,” she answered, chuckling. “And without Davyd …”

  Her laughter died. She shook her head and turned away. Davyd watched her, thinking, I’ll do my best. Is it in my power, I shall be your Dream Guide and see you safe from harm. Then added guiltily, Yours and Arcole’s both, and set to searching for suitable kindling.

  That night Arcole insisted he take the first watch, that he be able to sleep the remainder and, hopefully, dream of any danger ahead. Davyd took his musket and scrambled up the cliff to take station on the rim. The river ran smooth and dark as oil below him, and the banked fire was a dim red eye between the boat and the bluff. He could barely make out the shapes of Flysse and Arcole—and did not like to look too hard—but when he did, he thought they lay together and felt a sudden flush of … He was not sure, it was a feeling compounded of mixed emotions: envy and embarrassment and guilt. For a while he wished he were Arcole, and could not help imagining how it might feel to lie with Flysse in his arms. Then, angry with himself for such thoughts, he rose and patrolled inland, creeping stealthily through the pines until he reached the edge and looked out across the grass. Far off, he thought he saw faint light, as if from windows, or perhaps a group of close-spaced fires. He wondered if he should return to the river to report the sight. But what if Flysse and Arcole still lay together? He felt his cheeks grow warm at the notion of interrupting them, and decided that if folk—settlers or demons—sat around those fires, they could not know they were observed, neither were they close enough to represent any immediate threat. He stood awhile, watching, then returned to the bluff’s rim.

  All was silent below, save for the soft whispering of the river. Stars spread overhead, brilliant as jewels scattered across a velvet cloth, and the slender crescent of the new moon drifted leisurely westward. Davyd squatted, musket across his thighs, fighting against the images of Flysse that threatened to intrude. I must not, he told himself sternly, but still there came the insidious thought: What if Arcole were not with us?

  He was grateful when Arcole came to relieve him. “I thought I saw lights,” he reported. “A long way off to the west.”

  “The Bayliss holding’s in that direction.” Arcole seemed in a great good humor; Davyd felt a rush of guilty envy. “It might be that: I’ll take a look. Meanwhile, sleep well.”

  Davyd nodded and climbed down to the river.

  Flysse stirred sleepily as he found his bedroll. He saw that hers and Arcole’s were laid together. He took his own a little way off and stretched out, telling himself, I am the Dream Guide. I must do my duty and not think of her.

  He doubted that should be possible, but his efforts at the oars and the tension of the day seeped suddenly into him, so that he slept before he knew it. And dreamed.

  “There was no danger in it,” he said around a mouthful of roasted beef. “I dreamed of a meeting, no more than that. I saw no faces, but I don’t think they were demons.”

  “Can you be sure?” Arcole said.

  “There was no sense of danger.” Davyd shrugged. “I can’t be sure, but before …” He scratched at his cheek, where the brand stood pale against his growing tan. “There was always the feeling of danger before.”

  Flysse said, “You slept undisturbed.” And when he frowned, amplified: “You’ve always tossed and turned, cried out.”

  He nodded thoughtfully and said, “I suppose I did. Surely when I dreamed of the attack on Grostheim, I woke frightened. This was not like that at all. This was quite peaceful.”

  “So.” Arcole wiped grease from his beard. “We’re to have a meeting, eh? Likely, a peaceful meeting.”

  Davyd spread his hands in an equivocal gesture. “I suppose so; I don’t know for sure.” He smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry?” Arcole laughed, and reached to slap his shoulder, turning to Flysse. “D’you hear him? He predicts our future and then apologizes.”

  “It’s not very clear,” said Davyd. “I’d hoped to do better.”

  “You do the best you can,” Arcole returned. “I’d ask no more of any man.”

  Davyd liked that: that Arcole named him a man. He felt better. “I’ll practice,” he said, not sure how he would do that, but nonetheless determined.

  Curious—and not a little wary—they loaded the dinghy and continued on their way. The sun was not long risen, but still it lit the river as if the water were molten gold. The sky was a pristine blue, the breeze that came out of the west refreshing. Herons stood, patient fishermen, along the banks, and an osprey stooped to snatch a plump trout. Magpies chattered, and from a stretch of woodland a great black flock of crows took noisy flight.

  Before midmorning, as they drew level with the Bayliss farm, Davyd’s dream was proved true.

  He crouched in the bow, scanning the shore and the river ahead, so he was the first to see them. He gasped, settling a thumb on the musket’s hammer, then said, “People!”

  Arcole backed water, turning the dinghy that he might see.

  Flysse said, “Not demons, I think.”

  “Evanderans are no less dangerous.” Arcole craned around, squinting shoreward. “Does some farmer see our brands, he’ll look to take us in.”

  “I think they’re all indentured folk.” Davyd shaded his eyes against the brilliance of the sun. “They look all ragged.”

  Arcole asked, “Are they armed?”

  “They’ve axes and such,” Davyd replied. “I can see no guns.”

  Arcole turned the dinghy closer to the shore and held it stationary as he surveyed the watchers. They crowded on a little jetty, studying the approaching boat. They appeared a sorry lot, four women and three men, unkempt and dressed in dirty homespun. They waved at the boat. He saw no firearms, but as Davyd had warned, they held axes and other tools. He brought the dinghy closer still.

  “Flysse, do you pass me my musket?”

  She obeyed even as she said, “Surely they offer no harm. Look, I can see their brands.”

  “Even so.” Arcole nodded. “Davyd, do I give the word, fire over their heads.”

  He let the dinghy drift a little nearer and called out, “Greetings, friends. Who are you?”

  They seemed nonplussed as they saw the trio in the dinghy clearly. The oldest man shouted, “You’ve come from Grostheim?”

  “We have,” Arcole replied. “And you?”

  “Where are the others?” The man scanned the river as if he anticipated a flotilla. “Where are the soldiers?”

  “Busy defending the city,” Arcole called. “We’re all alone.”

  A woman wailed at that, clutching a screaming child to her breast.

  “No soldiers?” asked the man. “Oh, God save us! Did the master send you?”

  “Who’s the master?” Arcole shouted.

  “Sieur Bayliss,” came the reply. “Him and the mistress quit the holding weeks back. Told us to hang on, he did. Said he’d have soldiers come to bring us in.”

  “Grostheim was under siege when we … departed,” Arcole called. “I know nothing of this Bayliss.”

  The man gaped. He turned to his companions, an expression of bewilderment on his bearded face. A younger fellow pushed to the fore and shouted, “You’re exiles, no? Indentured folk like us?”

  “Exiles, yes,” Arcole called back. “But no longer indentured. We chose to quit our … employment. We’re headed west.”

  The young man turned slowly in that direction, staring at the distant shadow of the forests as if he struggled to comprehend Arcole’s words.

  “You’re runaways? You’re going into the wilderness?”

  “To live free,” Arcole returned.

  “And you don’t bring help?”

  “I fear not.”

  “The masters’ll hunt you down.” The older man spoke again, goggling now, as if their presence might somehow contaminate him. “The governor’ll send Militiamen after you.”

  “The Militiamen are otherwise occupied,” Arcole gave back. “Or were
when we left. The demons came in force against the city, and I doubt we’ll be missed.”

  “No soldiers,” a woman cried. “No help. Oh, God, we’re done for.”

  The young man said, “You’ve a boat.”

  “A very small boat,” Arcole said. “Barely large enough for us three. Surely too small for ten people, or even seven. Besides, you’re safer here than in Grostheim.”

  The young man looked set to argue, but the older put a hand on his arm and said, “He’s right, Gerold. We’d swamp that little thing. And if he speaks the truth about Grostheim …”

  “He does,” Flysse called. “The demons are all around the city—we fled in the confusion.”

  “The what shall we do?” asked the oldster.

  Arcole said, “You’ve not yet been attacked?”

  “Not yet,” came the answer in a tone of despair.

  “Did Bayliss leave you weapons?” Arcole asked.

  The man frowned as if the question were nonsensical and shook his head. “We’re indentured folk, not allowed weapons.” He touched his brand to emphasize his words. “The master took all the muskets and pistols with him.”

  Arcole said, “A kindly master, eh?” in a tone of contempt.

  The young man said, “You’ve guns.”

  “Only these,” Arcole replied. “Which we shall need, I think.”

  Gerold hefted the ax he carried; Davyd raised his musket across his chest. Surely it could not come to a fight? His dream had suggested no danger. He caught Gerold’s eye and for a moment they stared at each other, then the ax was lowered and Gerold muttered, “God, does it come to this? We all wear the brand, no? Shall we fight one another?”

  Davyd said, “I’d not.”

  Arcole said, “It’s the masters to blame—the Autarchy of Evander. They use folk like us as they will, but when danger threatens—then they run, looking only to save their own skins.”

  Gerold said, “That’s true, but of little comfort. What’s to become of us?”

  “Have the demons not yet attacked this farm,” Arcole said, “then perhaps they never will. You may be safe here; surely safer than did you try for Grostheim.”

  Gerold spat and said, “So we’re to remain; tend the master’s herds and fields while he hides behind the city walls. And then, does he return?”

  Arcole said, “You might keep the place for your own. Or you could follow us into the forests.”

  “The wilderness?” Gerold shook his head vigorously, spitting and crossing his fingers. “That’s where the demons come from, no? I’ll not go there.”

  “Nor I,” agreed the oldster. “Nor any of us. But, friend, might you not stay? We’d stand a better chance with your muskets.”

  “Would you fight the Autarchy?” Arcole asked. “When Bayliss comes back—if he does—would you claim this farm for your own?”

  It was as if he suggested some great obscenity. The old man stood with dropped jaw, and Gerold stared at Arcole as if he were crazed. The others shook their heads and voiced denial.

  “Then what of us?” Arcole pressed. “You ask us to stay—to risk our lives, perhaps, in your defense. But when Bayliss returns, you’d welcome him—and hand us over?”

  Gerold, at least, had the grace to blush. The old man shrugged and said, “That’s the way of the world, no? The masters rule and we serve. What else can we do?”

  Arcole said, “Save you’ve the courage to stand up for yourselves, nothing. But we go west, to freedom.”

  “More like to your deaths,” the old man grunted.

  “Perhaps.” Arcole smiled. “But is that our fate, we’ll die free.”

  “At least rest here awhile,” the old man suggested. “We’ve food aplenty.”

  Arcole shook his head. “I think not. The day’s young yet, and we’ve a way to travel. Fare you well.”

  He wasted no more time, but set to propelling the dinghy out into the stream, away from the dock. The exiles stood watching, their expressions hopeless.

  “Might we not have stayed?” Flysse asked.

  “Why?” Arcole returned. “There’s nothing for us there, save likely they’d seek to take our guns. And should Bayliss come home, hand us over.”

  “Think you they would?” she asked. “Truly?”

  Arcole nodded. “Those were defeated folk. They’ve accepted their lot—Evander’s beaten them down.”

  From the bow, Davyd said, “I was afraid that Gerold was going to attack us. I feared I’d have to shoot.”

  “I didn’t,” Arcole replied calmly. “I trusted your dream.”

  Davyd pondered that awhile, then grinned. “Yes,” he said. “I dreamed true, no?”

  “You did,” said Arcole. “You did, indeed.”

  They floated on, the days steadily warmer as spring gave way to summer, pulling to midstream where Arcole’s map showed holdings—they none of them felt any desire to repeat their sad encouter with the hapless folk of the Bayliss holding. When their food ran low, Arcole shot—he could not think of it as hunting—a cow or a hog from the herds now roaming loose over the empty farmlands. Flysse demonstrated her rustic skills, filling the canteens with fresh milk, or finding vegetables to supplement the meat. Twice, she brought them eggs.

  Davyd tried his hand with the fishing lines, but had no luck, and Arcole would not yet permit him to fire the musket for fear of wasting shot. Had he not dreamed, he would have felt useless; but the dreams came often now, and he grew more adept in their interpretation. It seemed that his ability increased as they drew closer to the wilderness.

  Three times he warned against the danger of landing, and they duly saw demons on the shore, pushing on until night hid them and they deemed it safe to beach the dinghy. Three more times he urged they hold to midstream, and demons appeared along the bank, pacing the boat until the terrain or the sweeps of the river denied them further pursuit. And all the time the shadow line of the forests grew more distinct, no longer a faraway goal, but daily more real. The wilderness began to assume a looming physical presence, and Davyd spent more and more time each day scanning its nearing edges, seeking to find the mountains beyond.

  When his surveillance was rewarded, he doubted the evidence his eyes gave him. Ahead, it was as though a vast brush had painted a line of darkness across the horizon. The pale, bright green of the grasslands gave way to darker hues, green and blue and black: the wilderness forest. That enormous swath was wide enough, but it in turn was dwarfed by what stood beyond and above. It seemed the forests climbed to meet the sky, save a wall of stone stood above the timber as if supporting the heavens. He could scarcely believe anything so massive existed in all the world as those great peaks. They ran as far as he could see to north and south, cloud shrouding the summits, their flanks all blue and gray above the green darkness of the treeline, sparkling white higher up. He thought that if safety lay there, it should be certainly very hard to find, for he could not envisage how anyone might climb such a barrier.

  But on more nights than one, it was if a voice whispered from the mountains, calling him, summoning him to them. He could not understand it, but he believed—in his blood and the marrow of his bones—that he must go there, must bring Flysse and Arcole to that refuge. That he must play his part of Dream Guide.

  As the forests loomed ever closer, so the signs of habitation fell away. Arcole’s map showed no more holdings, and the animals grazing the riverside pastures thinned. They held a council and decided to rest awhile, long enough that Flysse might smoke meat for them to carry with them. Arcole was loath to chance the forest’s hunting: he feared all their shot might be needed against more savage creatures, and indeed Davyd’s dreams now suggested great peril lay ahead. It was as if they must pass a test of some kind before they could hope to gain the promised sanctuary, and often as he dreamed of the mountains and safety, he dreamed of fire and demons. But did he wake sweating, gripped by remembered terror, still there was a boon to the delay. Arcole taught him and Flysse to use their weapons, and beg
an to teach Davyd the rudiments of swordplay.

  The lessons were, of necessity, sparse, the use of powder and shot limited, but the basics were conveyed and afforded them both a small sense of security. Davyd thought that at least, did the demons fall on them, they might now give a fair account of themselves. Even so, as nightly he dreamed of threat, he longed to be gone. To face whatever lay ahead must surely be better than this waiting. He felt only relief when Flysse announced their supplies ready, and Arcole declared it time to go.

  46 The Wilderness

  Timber flanked the Restitution now, and the current grew daily stronger. The banks narrowed, rocks began to show, and when the first cascade appeared, Arcole declared it time to leave the dinghy and proceed on foot.

  It was strange to walk again; stranger still that their way wound amongst vast trees, branches spreading wide and leafy overhead so that the sky was more often than not hidden and they marched in shadow dappled with harlequin patterns of filtered sunlight. Birds sang but were seldom seen, and startled beasts—deer and boars and bears—surprised them, fleeing half glimpsed from their approach. They none of them felt at ease. They had Davyd’s dreams to set their nerves on edge, their ears straining to discern the unfamiliar forest sounds, their eyes scanning the crepuscular woods. They momentarily anticipated the onslaught of demons, coming screaming out of the trees.

  Arcole took the lead, Davyd the rear, and they followed the river because it led them westward toward the mountains, and that was the direction Davyd’s dreams told them to go. It was hard traveling, for the land soon rose, the river tumbling down over steep falls or cutting a way through rocky gorges, the banks often impossible to traverse, so that they must meander deeper into the forest and trust their ears to tell them where the water ran. But westward, always westward, the tree-shaded sun on their backs in the mornings. on their faces come the afternoons.

  And did Arcole head their little column, it was Davyd who guided them now.

  The content of the dreams still frightened him, but he was at peace with the ability. Indeed, he was proud of his role as Dream Guide and grew daily more confident. When he urged caution, Arcole listened, and Flysse studied him with wide and wondering eyes. Davyd could not help luxuriating in her admiration any more than he could resist the pleasure he felt at Arcole’s trust, but it was easier to resist his guilty thoughts under the burden of responsibility. When he took his turn on guard and images of Flysse came hot into his mid, he pushed them away—there was too much danger here to allow such distractions. And when he slept, it was not Flysse who invaded his dreams, but images of demons and peril, and the sense of a hazardous maze to be traversed before they might reach safety.