Dies the Fire

by S. M. Stirling

  Upon which we may rest;

  With gentle sigh I'll softly lie

  My head upon your breast … "

  Juniper finished the tune, and laid her guitar aside. Their campfires were in a hollow where the hills began west of Salem, cut off from the flatlands, overlooked by little except the Coast Range forests. A huge oak leaned above the little hollow, and the low coals of the fires lit its great gnarled branches and the delicate new leaves, turning them brown-gold and green-gold. The sky above was clear, frosted with stars and a waxing moon that hung huge and yellow above the mountains; sparks drifted up to join them now and then, when a stick broke with a sharp snap amid the coals.

  She was feeling pleasantly not-quite-full, although closer to it than she had been in weeks. The kettle had held three big rabbits, as well as some wild onion, arrowhead tubers, herbs, and bits and pieces from both parties' stores; noodles and sun-dried tomatoes and two cans of lima beans they'd found in an abandoned camper.

  The smell of it still scented the air, along with the fresh green grass and camas lilies. She'd contributed the makings for herbal tea, and she picked up a cup of it now.

  "Good of you to slow down and keep us company for a while," she said across the coals. "It's been a nice couple of days; a chance to let clean air blow the grue out."

  It was a joy to be able to chat with someone new, as well, the pleasant meandering talk you had when people struck a spark of friendship and got to know each other. Beyond essentials, they'd mostly talked about times before the Change, as if to raise a barrier against the grisliness of their meeting. He'd found her ex-surburban, only-child, class of life as a wandering minstrel intriguing; just as she had his hard-grit blue-collar rural upbringing with swarms of siblings and relatives; and they shared a love of the woods and mountains, the trees and beasts.

  "No problem, we were heading this way anyhow," Mike Havel said. "It's been fun, and fun's thin on the ground these days."

  They were a quarter-circle away from each other; Judy was a little farther from the fire, and the second hearth held most of the rest—she could hear Muriel's voice. A dear lady, but given to babbling at the best of times, and more so now; Eric and Josh were going to get an earful of Wiccan herbalism, whether they wanted to or not; at least that was happier than the bursts of tears in the first day and night.

  They've been surprisingly patient and gentle with the captives, that they have, with strangers they owe nothing, Juniper thought. Good hearts under those iron shirts.

  Mike Havel sat with his back against his saddle; his hands worked on a rabbit trap without needing to look at the task, long fingers fashioning the bent willow-withe and nylon cord with effortless strength. In boots and jeans and T-shirt under a battered-looking sheepskin jacket he appeared a good deal less exotic than he had in hauberk and bear-crowned helmet, but just as good.

  I'm not one to need a Big Strong Man at every moment, she thought. But I'm fair thankful this one came along when he did. Nor is he hard on the eyes, by Macha! Not stupid either, and strong of will without being a macho jerk; the women of the Bearkillers must be fair blind! Nice pawky sense of humor, too.

  Tactful questions had revealed he was single so far. There was wistfulness in the thought; they must part, and soon.

  "Figured your friends needed some recovery time," he said. "Cutting our way through that hell-on-earth south of Portland wasn't any fun for us three, either, and hard on our horses—we took it as quick as we could and not founder them. Slowing up for a bit makes sense."

  He grinned: "And besides, while your style isn't what I usually put on the CD player, it's good—and Lord, but I've missed music! The only people in our outfit who can sing at all do cowboy songs. Mind you, it could be worse—one of my father's sisters was always trying to make me and my brothers listen to Sibelius."

  "Cowboy songs? You don't like country?" she said, surprised.

  "Oh, I like country a lot. I meant real cowboy songs: cows, dust, horses—the old stuff actual trail riders sang to the dogies. Not bad, but sort of monotonous. My tastes run to Fred Eaglesmith, say, or Kevin Welch."

  "Kevin Welch, is it?" Juniper said with a smile; she picked up her guitar and struck the strings, whistling for a second to establish the beat, tapping her foot and then putting a down-home rasp into her voice:

  "My woman's a fire-eater,

  My woman's 'bout six feet tall … "

  Havel exclaimed in delight when she'd finished, leading a round of applause.

  "'Hill Country Girl'! My favorite tune—never thought I'd hear it done right again!"

  Juniper laughed. "We have ceilidh all the time; well, all the time we're not working or too cursed tired."

  "Kailies?" Havel said, which was roughly the way it was pronounced.

  "Singsongs, really; the word's Gaelic. Music and dancing; I was a professional, of course, and I can handle several instruments—not badly, either, if I say so myself—but Chuck's a good hand on the mandolin and Judy can do wonders with a bodhran drum, and Dorothy is a piper, and plays a mean tenor banjo as well, and most of my old coveners can carry a tune. There's a lot of sheet music at my cabin, of course; it was my base and as much of a home as I had. I specialized in Celtic music and folk and my own stuff, but it's not all we do."

  Havel whistled. "Sounds better than a CD player!"

  "More fun, truly. What do your people like to entertain themselves with of an evening, then?"

  "Well, we try to sing something else, now and then," Havel said. "Angelica knows some Spanish folk songs. Astrid—Eric's younger sister—does readings from her favorite books, or just tells stories; she and Signe both draw and sketch, and they've been teaching some others; and we have games, play cards … I do wish we'd had a good musician, though. Maybe we'll get one."

  "You don't have a bad voice, Mike," she said. "It just needs training."

  "Haven't had the time," Havel replied. He hesitated, and went on: "Is Juniper your real name?"

  "It is now," she said cheerfully, putting the tea down and strumming a little to accompany her words. "And has been these fourteen years; it's my outer Craft name. I was sort of militant about it then; put it down to being sweet sixteen and at outs with my parents."

  "Er … " Havel said. "I'm sort of a lapsed Lutheran myself. I haven't known many Wiccans."

  Juniper laughed: "And the ones you did see tended to the impractical? Endless discussions of anything under the sun? A preoccupation with dressing up? Sort of flaky, overall?"

  She watched his embarrassment with a slight smile; he was about the most relentlessly practical man she'd ever met, on first impressions. He was probably trying desperately to avoid saying words on the order of some of my best friends are flakes.

  "Well, that's not entirely mistaken," she said, taking pity on him. "But there are all types in the Craft, from herbalists to dental hygienists, some varieties more flamboyant than others; not to mention the different traditions, which are as distinct as Baptists and Catholics. My coven, the Singing Moon . well, we're a straightforward bunch. A musician—myself—a city gardener, a nurse, a couple who owned a restaurant … "

  "Certainly sounds like you've been doing well," he said with relief. "Anyone who's alive and not starving and has a crop planted is!"

  They looked at each other for a moment while she let a tune trickle out through her fingers. Then Havel cleared his throat and gestured at the piled rabbit-traps he'd wrapped in a blanket for carrying.

  "Guess I should get these set," he said, then coughed into one hand. "Ah … care to come along?"

  "I'd be delighted," Juniper said gravely, suppressing her smile—men had fragile egos and big clumsy emotional feet. "It's a useful skill, setting snares for rabbits. Learned it from your grandmother, did you say?"

  "Her younger brother, Ben."

  They both picked up their sword belts and buckled them on. As she rose and turned to slide her guitar into its battered case she saw Judy smiling at her from across the flame-lit dar
kness, raising her hand in the gesture of blessing.

  Juniper stuck out her tongue briefly, and turned to follow Havel into the darkness. They both stopped for an instant beyond the reach of the firelight, staring outward to let their eyes adjust; she noticed Havel noticing what she'd done, and his nod of respect.

  The moon was a week past full, still huge and yellow, shining ghostly through tatters of cloud, and the stars were very bright—even now she wasn't quite used to seeing them so many and so clear in this part of the country. Together they made it easy enough to find your way, if you were accustomed to nighted wilderness.

  After a moment they moved off the trail, through long grass thick with weeds, where a spiderweb shone like silver with beads of dew. Havel moved quietly—very quietly for a big man, and in unfamiliar country. Juniper followed him up the slope, through overgrown pasture towards a line of brush and trees behind a wire fence.

  "Good spot,'' she said in an almost-whisper, when she saw where he was heading.

  She pointed, and they could both see the tracks and the slight beaten trail. "Creature of habit, your average rabbit, likely to come through here again."

  "You a hunter?" he asked softly with a chuckle in the tone.

  "No," she said. "I didn't hunt, not until the Change. But I liked watching the birds and animals, when I got the chance."

  They both ducked through the wires of the fence, holding it for each other—his long saber was more of a nuisance than her gladius—and moved to where a fallen tree trunk made good shelter for a small animal low on the food chain to scan the meadow before venturing out. He rubbed grass and herbs between his hands before he planted the trap, and baited it with a handful of evening primrose roots. The next few went further up along the brush-grown verge, natural stopping-places for an animal attracted to the varied food that grew in edge habitats.

  They moved into the woods; mixed fir and oak, old enough to have a canopy over their heads. The cool green smell was different from the open meadow, more spicy and varied. It was much darker here, just enough to see their way.

  "There," she said, pointing.

  The spot showed close-cropped grass, beneath a high bank that cut off the wind; it also broke the roof of branches above, and let in a little starlight and moonlight.

  "Good spot," he repeated. "Wouldn't be surprised if there were some burrows there."

  "You men are unromantic beasts," she said, laughing. "I had a bit of a stop in mind, Mike."

  He had a crooked smile, but an oddly charming one. "You know, I was hoping you'd say something like that." He hesitated. "I can't stay. I've got my people to look after—commitments elsewhere."

  "Me too, but you're a gentleman to say so." She put her arms around his neck. "Now shut up, will you?"

  * * * *

  My, my, my, Juniper thought.

  She stretched luxuriously and then hugged the sheepskin jacket around her shoulders against the chill, watching as Mike Havel lit a fire a yard away. He had an old-fashioned liquid-fueled cigarette lighter to do it with, and the wick caught the second time his thumb worked the wheel in a little shower of sparks. The light showed for a moment through the teepee of twigs and duff he'd laid as tinder.

  "It's not that cold," she said. "Besides, it's fun to cuddle, and we've got this blanket you so accidentally wrapped those traps in."

  He looked over his shoulder. Squatting naked wasn't usually a flattering position for a man, but he was as un-selfconscious about his body as a wolf. Odd that he got a bear-name dropped on him. He wasn't furry, less body hair than most, but a wolf was what he reminded her of, or a cat; something lean and perfectly shaped.

  Except for the scars, she thought, with a quick surge of compassion; she'd noticed, of course, but things had been too … urgent … to ask before.

  "How did that happen?" she asked gently.

  He glanced down at the white seamed mark on his leg as he carefully added deadwood to the little blaze.

  "Slipped cutting down a dead pine," he said. "Christ Jesus, did my dad give me hell about it!"

  She nodded, but went on: "No, I meant that."

  That was a curious radial pattern on his ribs; the muscle and tendon moved easily beneath it, but the flickering un-derlight of the fire brought out the tracery of damaged skin.

  He glanced up at her quickly, his eyes cold and withdrawn for a moment, then thawing.

  "No," he said. "You're not the sort of girl who'd get off on scars, hey?"

  "I'm not any sort of a girl," she said tartly. "And not that sort of woman, either. I like you, Mike. I just wanted to know about you."

  He grinned and finished building the fire. "OK, point taken, and I like you too, Juney. It was an RPG."

  "Role-playing game?" she asked, bewildered, and saw him laugh aloud, his head thrown back—for the first time since they met, she realized.

  "Rocket Propelled Grenade," he said. "Freak thing— should have killed me, it hit the rocks just to my left and then shit was flying everywhere."

  He looked down at his hands; they slowly closed. "Next thing I knew I was crawling and pulling what was left of Ronnie Thibodeaux out and yelling for a corpsman. You would have liked Ronnie—Cajun kid from the bayous, turned me on to zydeco music."

  The flames cast shadows on the bank of earth behind, moving like ruddy ghost-shapes in the darkness.

  "I may be a beast, but not an unromantic one; a fire always makes things nicer, right?"

  Juniper threw back the coat and opened her arms.

  * * * *

  Mike Havel always found partings awkward; he'd expected this to be worse than most, after the holiday feeling—like three days spent out of time, without the sensation of knotted tension he'd had most days since the Change and every day since he saw the Protector's outposts. He'd always gotten good-byes over with as fast as he could, keeping his eyes fixed ahead.

  Oddly enough, this good-bye was easier than most; not less for regrets, but …

  But then, she's … comfortable to be around. Cuter than hell, but not at all the pixie you'd think from her looks. There's steel underneath. Damn, I wish life wasn't so complicated.

  At that he had to chuckle; since the Change, it had gotten complicated beyond belief—but apparently the personal stuff didn't stop. Juniper looked up at him from her bicycle, smiling in her turn. The young sun flamed on her hair, falling in loose curls to the shoulders of her jack; she had her bow over her shoulder, and her bowl helmet slung from the handlebars—as if this was a carefree day before the Change, and she someone heading out on a mountain bike. The air had a cool bite to it, a wind out of the west that hinted at rain, but for now the clouds were white billows sailing through haze-blue sky.

  "What's the joke, Mike?" she asked; her voice still had that hint of a lilt and burble to it.

  "That this doesn't really feel like good-bye," he said.

  "Well, maybe it isn't, then?" she said, grinning at him. "I have a strong premonition we'll all meet again—and I'm a Witch, you know."

  She looked past him to Eric. "I've a present for your sister," she said.

  "Signe?" he blurted, then looked as if he wished his lips would seal shut.

  "No, Astrid," she said; then glanced at Havel.

  He could read that glance: I'm already sending Signe something.

  "From what I heard, your Astrid and my Eilir would get on like a house on fire—tell her that from me."

  She unsnapped the dagger from her belt. It was a Scottish-style dirk, ten inches of tapering double-edged blade, guardless, with a hilt of bone carved in interwoven Celtic ribbon-work, and a pommel in the form of the Green Man's face. More of the swirling patterns worked their way down the sheath, tooled into the dark leather.

  She tossed it up to him, and then turned her bicycle; the rest of her people were straddling their machines in a clump—the nest of Eaters had had half a dozen workable trail bikes.

  "Merry meet and merry part," she said, waving to the three Bearkillers; her eyes me
t Havel's, and he felt a little of that shock again. "And merry meet again!"

  Havel waved, then leaned his hands on the pommel of his saddle as the knot of … Well, "Mackenzies," he thought. Makes as much sense as "Bearkillers," doesn 't it? … coasted off southward, freewheeling down the slope that took the two-lane road weaving among trees and fields.

  "Damn. That is quite a woman," he said quietly to himself. "One hell of a woman, in fact."

  Eric was looking over the dagger; he drew it and whistled at the damascene blade. "Legolamb will love it," he said. "Looks Elvish to a fault."

  "Scottish," Havel corrected.

  "Whatever." Then his glance turned sly: "Shall I tell Signe about the circumstances?"

  Havel shook himself slightly, touching the rein to his horse's neck and turning the big gelding westward, up the gravel road that intersected the county highway.

  "No, I'll tell her."

  "Why shouldn't I do it first?" Eric said, grinning.

  "You over that constipation, kid?" he said.

  "Well … yeah," Eric replied, frowning in puzzlement.

  Josh Sanders was chuckling on Havel's other side as the three horses moved off, the pack-string following.

  "Then if your bowels are moving regular, you really shouldn't tell Signe a word," Havel went on seriously.

  "What's that got to do with it?" Eric said.

  "It's real difficult to wipe your ass when you've got two broken arms," Havel said.

  Sanders barked laughter; Eric followed after a moment.

  "Want me to take point?" he said.

  "Let Josh do it first," Havel said.

  Sanders nodded and brought his horse up to a canter, pulling ahead of the other two riders and the remount string. The road they followed wound west into the Eola Hills; the slope was gently downward through a peach orchard for a long bowshot, and Havel lost himself in it for a moment as petals drifted downward and settled in pink drifts on the shoulders of his hauberk and Gustav's mane. There had been enough ugly moments since the Change that it was a good idea to make the most of the other kind.

  The thought made him smile. Morning's chill and dew brought out the scent; it reminded him of the smell of Juniper's hair for some reason, and the almost translucent paleness of her skin where the sun hadn't reached.