To the High Redoubt

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  When the fire was well-established, Arkady stumbled off into the trees to relieve himself, returning to find that Surata had somehow managed to find her way to the stream and bring enough water to make more gruel and to set out a little leaf tea, which Arkady regarded with suspicion. As he sat down on the blanket roll, his legs still treacherously shaky, he eyed the bowl of tea. “Where did you get that?” he demanded.

  This time Surata did not respond quite as she had in the past. She pointed to Arkady. “Arkady-immai,” she said, then pointed to the fire. “Chim?”

  “Uh…fire,” Arkady said.

  “Uhfire?” she repeated.

  “No, just fire, Fire.” He took her hand in his and pointed to it. “Fire.”

  “Fire,” she said. The next thing she touched was the bag of grain. “Chim?”

  “Food,” he said. “Grain. Food.”

  “Foodgrainfood,” she echoed.

  “Food,” he corrected her.

  “Food,” she agreed.

  By the time they had finished their gruel, she had added five more words to her vocabulary and was smiling with pleasure.

  Arkady watched her, surprised at how quickly she learned and how methodically she went about acquiring information. He could not help but smile at her, taking an unexpected pride in her abilities. There were so many others who were blind who would not have bothered to learn, but this foreign slave-woman was insisting that he tell her more words. She was moving her hand through the air, making it dive and tremble.

  “Wind,” he said, guessing at what she meant. He leaned over and blew on her fingers. “Wind.”

  “Wind,” she agreed. “Fire, food, ground, rock, wood, sword, blanket, wind.”

  “Very good!” He laughed aloud. “You’re doing very well, Surata.”

  “Chim?” she asked, and by now he knew the meaning of that word.

  “Surata…” He tried to think of some way to convey what he meant. He reached over and patted her on the arm, very much as if she were a young soldier who had fought well. “Good.”

  Immediately she patted him on his arm. “Good.”

  “No,” he sighed. “Never mind. I’ll try to explain it later.”

  It was almost midday when they moved on, going slowly along the road, letting the horse choose its pace, making no effort to urge it. As they went, she learned more words.

  “Tree. Horse. Hand. Foot. Head. Hair. Face. Arm. Fingers. Water. Boot. Saddle.”

  When they stopped to purchase dates and figs from a farmer, Surata learned her first abstract. She tugged at Arkady’s arm and put her hand on her stomach. “Chim?” To make sure, she opened her mouth. “Food.”

  “Hungry,” he said. “So am I.” He chuckled as she repeated that along with her other words. “You’re amazing, Surata. I couldn’t do half as well, and I can see.”

  She caught the approval in his tone and smiled at him. Still smiling, she reached up, almost touching his eyes. “Chim?”

  He swallowed hard before answering. “Eyes.”

  “Eyes.” She hesitated, then pointed to her own. “Eyes?”

  “Eyes.” he agreed with difficulty.

  She frowned shaking her head. “Dumet eyes.” She passed her hand in front of her. “Eyes?”

  “Eyes.” he insisted. “Blind.”

  “Ah. Blind.” This satisfied her, and she nodded, repeating the words to herself.

  Arkady was grateful to see the farmer coming toward them with a jug of goat’s milk and a few rounds of cheese. He finished the figs he held and reached into his wallet for one of the silver coins he had. “Good. Very good,” he told the man and grinned at the farmer’s blank smile.

  The farmer had few teeth, and so he said very little, and what he said was in a sibilant whistle. He took the money Arkady offered, and pointed toward his well.

  “Food?” Surata asked as she bit into a date. She was near the horse so that she could reach out and touch the sack of grain. “Food.”

  “Grain-food,” Arkady explained, then touched the dates in her hand. “Fruit-food.” He reached for the reins. “I have to water the horse.”

  There were two words she recognized, and she said them both. As Arkady started to lead his horse toward the well, she reached up and took hold of the unstrung bow hanging from the saddle and followed him toward the well.

  “Bow. Arrow. Well. Bucket. Stone. Stirrup. Bridle. Rein. Sack. Cheese. Milk. Cup. Bowl. Sand. Bench. Sun. Shade. Grape. Vine.”

  They sat in the farmer’s grape arbor out of the afternoon glare. The gentle drone of insects was the only sound they heard aside from their own voices and the munching of the gelding as he cropped weeds near the well.

  Arkady stretched out his legs, wishing they were a little less stiff. It was so pleasant here, he thought, if only he were not so sore.

  Apparently Surata noticed how he moved, for she suddenly put her cup of milk aside on the bench and reached out for him, her hands seeking out the bandage on his arm. Deftly she untied the cloth, paying no heed to his objections, then said, “Water.”

  Arkady sighed. “All right.” He had to admit that it would feel better if some of the grit was washed out of it. He stood up and went back to the well, filling his empty cup with water and coming back to the arbor. “Here. Water.”

  She took the cup and sniffed at it. Then very carefully, she began to wash out the wound. “Arm. Water,” she informed him.

  “Yes,” he said wearily. “Thanks.” This last was half-sarcastic, but also grudgingly respectful. “You do that well.”

  “Well?” she repeated, surprised.

  “No. Good.” He winced as she deliberately set the cut to bleeding once more. “Don’t do that.”

  “Water,” she said patiently.

  “Water, hell, that’s blood.” He took his free hand and touched her fingers near the cut. “Blood.”

  She sniffed her fingers. “Blood. Water blood,” she said very calmly, and continued to wash. When she was through, she hacked off more of the hem of her robe—“Knife. Cloth.”—to bandage the wound once more. “Water. Blood. Cloth,” she declared, relinquishing her hold on him. “Arm.”

  “True enough,” Arkady said to her, wondering what else she might take it into her head to do. He longed for a cup of wine but had discovered that it was not often found in this part of the world. Still, he thought lazily, trying to keep his mind off the throbbing in his arm, if the farmer here had this arbor, he might have wine. He was attempting to think of a way to find out when he felt Surata nudge him.

  “Cheese?”

  “Do you want some more?” he inquired.

  “Cheese. Sack. Saddle.” Her features were inquiring, and from the way she held her head, she was suggesting this to him.

  “Good idea,” he allowed and decided that it might also provide him a way to find out about wine.

  “N’yeh, Arkady-immai,” she said merrily, her manner growing more lighthearted. “Horse. Water. Food. Arkady-immai, Surata, water. Food. Cheese.”

  “Yes, I know,” he assured her. “I’ll talk to the farmer and see what I can arrange.”

  “Sack. Saddle,” she added.

  “Yes, I know,” he answered a bit curtly, as much because he knew she was right as any other reason. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Fruit-food. Grain-food. Cheese,” she called after him as he started toward the farmer’s house.

  “Fruit-food, grain-food, cheese. And wine,” he whispered to himself. “For love of the Archangels, let there be wine.”

  He was pleasantly startled to find his prayers had been answered. The farmer produced several rounds of dry cheese; some hard, flat bread; a large jar of dates; and two skins of a rough red wine that was as welcome as any Arkady had ever tasted. As an afterthought, he also purchased a generous comb of honey and had it put in a tight wooden box. He paid two silver coins for the lot and thought himself very fortunate to have so much for so little.

  “Tonight we will feast,” he said to Surata
when he came back to the arbor. “Cheese, bread, dates, honey, wine, it’s all here. If I can get a rabbit for us, it will be fine.”

  “Cheese,” she said, nodding happily. “Food.”

  In spite of the aches that plagued him, Arkady mounted his gelding in far better spirits than he would have thought possible. He reached down for Surata. “Give me your hand, Surata. I’ll lift you up.”

  “Hand. Arm.” She stretched toward him.

  “Up you go,” he said, pulling her up behind him.

  “Up you go,” she repeated.

  “Up,” he corrected her, then took her hand that had gone round his waist and lowered it. “Down.” As he raised it, “Up,” and lowered it again, “Down.”

  “Up,” she said, bringing her hand back to his waist.

  “Good,” he said, starting his horse off toward the road once again.

  Chapter 4

  Not long before sunset, they found a goatherd; and after many gestures and two copper coins, he indicated in mime that there was a good place to rest for the night not far from the road. He led them part of the way and pointed out the spot.

  “It looks fine,” Arkady said, nodding emphatically, offering the goatherd a handful of dates in addition to the coins.

  The goatherd smiled and bowed and babbled incomprehensibly, then went back to tending his flock, munching on the dates as he went.

  “I’ll gather wood for the fire,” Arkady told Surata. “You wait for me.”

  She knew four of the words he said—wood, fire, you, me—and decided that she would be warm soon.

  As Arkady unsaddled his gelding, he took his blanket and handed it to her. “You look chilly. Wrap up in this.” He was getting more used to talking to her, and much of the frustration he had felt at the beginning was gone. Once he had set the saddle on the ground, he wrapped the blanket around her shoulders. “There.”

  “Blanket,” she said, fingering it. “Fire.”

  “Warm,” he corrected her. “Blanket warm.”

  “Warm,” she said and stood beside the bay while Arkady hobbled him.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” he said, and went off in search of wood, grateful that it was still light enough to make the task simple. He brought the wood back to Surata so that she could lay the fire and went to find a few more branches so that they could keep the fire built up at night. The air was already chilly, and he knew they would need to provide more heat than the blanket alone would give them.

  “Fire?” Surata asked when Arkady returned.

  “In a moment.” He took flint and steel from his wallet, unwrapped them and struck a spark. As she blew on the kindling, he shook his head. “I don’t know how you do that.”

  “Warm. Hands warm,” she explained. Then, with the first blaze going, she turned to him. “Surata hungry. Grain-food and fruit-food and cheese.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Arkady agreed.

  “Good.” She clapped her hands. “Fast. Arkady-immai make fast.”

  “Just as soon as I kill a rabbit or a bird.” he promised her. “I’ll get the grain out and you can start making gruel. Or we can toast bread if you’d like that better. I’ll put some cheese on the bread and we can have it that way.” He did not want to admit that he was getting very tired of gruel.

  “Good food,” she said. “Make good food, bread and cheese.”

  “All right,” he said. “Shortly.” He took his bow and strung it, choosing three arrows. He hoped that the next time they found a market town, there would be a fletcher who would sell him more arrows.

  When he returned to the fire, the sun was down and Surata was contentedly eating a few dates. “Arkady-immai,” she called out through the dates. “Here!”

  “I’m coming,” he answered. He had already gutted and skinned the rabbit he had shot, and it needed only the spit for cooking. “I’ve got food.”

  “Food here,” she said, a bit puzzled.

  “This is other food, meat-food.” He came to the fire and found a long, thin stick that would serve for a spit. While the rabbit broiled, he cut cheese and put it on the hard bread, then set these on small rocks near the fire so that the cheese could melt.

  “Good food,” Surata declared as she had the first of the toasted bread-and-cheese. “More.”

  Laughing, Arkady gave her another but warned her, “Leave some room for the rabbit.”

  To his surprise, she shook her head. “Meat-food not good. Surata make cheese- and fruit-food.”

  Arkady looked at her. “Meat-food is fine, Surata. It’s rabbit.”

  “Not good,” she told him more firmly. “Arkady-immai make meat-food, good. Not good Surata make meat-food.” She held out her hand for some more toasted cheese.

  “Don’t you eat meat?” he asked, recalling some of the monks he had met who had given up meat for the sake of their souls and to honor God’s creatures.

  “Not good meat-food,” she said, taking another bite of the bread-and-cheese. “Here good, Arkady-immai.”

  Arkady shook his head slowly. “You can have more bread-and-cheese if that’s what you want, but I’m going to have the meat, if it’s all the same to you.” He touched the spit and gave the rabbit another turn.

  “Good Arkady-immai, not good Surata,” she insisted and accepted more dates from him.

  It puzzled Arkady to find her so determined, but he shrugged it off and helped himself to the rabbit, eating it off the point of his cinquedea. He wanted to ask her why she would not eat it, but she did not have enough words yet, either to explain or to understand his question. When he had eaten about half of the rabbit, he took one of the wineskins and drank some of the raw vintage. “Wine,” he said to Surata, holding it out to her. “Try it.”

  “Wine?” She tasted it, made a face and handed it back. “Arkady-immai make wine, not Surata.”

  This was more surprising than her refusal to eat meat. “Try it again, Surata,” he urged her, putting the wineskin in her free hand.

  She pushed it away. “Not Surata.”

  He shrugged. “There’s another skin, if you change your mind,” he said and poured more of the wine down his throat. It eased his thirst and the ache in his body; he wanted to get drunk but could not bring himself to go that far. “I’ll save the rest of this for later,” he told Surata when he had half emptied the wineskin.

  “Good,” she declared, choosing the last of her dates to munch. “Arkady-immai…not hungry.”

  “No, not anymore,” he said, taking a little more of the rabbit. The animal had been small, and he had to admit to himself that he was glad she did not want much—any—of it, though it still troubled him that she was not willing to eat meat. What would happen, he wondered, if that was all they had?

  He put most of the food into sacks and slung them in the spindly trees. As he worked, he said to Surata, “I want to get the food out of reach. There may be wild animals who want our food as much as we do. This way, there’s a pretty good chance they won’t get it.”

  “Ah,” she nodded.

  “How much of that made sense to you?” Arkady wondered aloud.

  “More,” she answered, turning her face toward him, and once again giving him the eerie feeling that she could see him and was watching him.

  “That’s certain,” he said quietly, adding more branches to the fire. “We’ll have to sleep close tonight, Surata.”

  Again she nodded, and Arkady was more troubled than before. “Good ground.”

  He was puzzled by this announcement but did not argue with her. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He got up and started to unroll his blanket. “It’s dark now. I…” he faltered. “I’m sleepy, my arm hurts and I’m stiff from riding. You must be too.”

  “Dark,” she said.

  “Dark. Not sun. Night.” He cleared his throat as he stared at her eyes.

  “Night. Dark.” She looked pleased.

  “The blanket’s almost ready,” he went on in a determined way. “You can lie down when you like.” He wished they h
ad enough water to wash with, or a means to shave. His whole body felt grimy, and he was faintly embarrassed to be too near Surata. It was one thing to go without bathing or washing when surrounded by soldiers; but in church or with a woman of quality, then it was proper for a captain, even a disgraced captain, to present himself in a manner worthy of Court.

  “Arkady-immai,” she said as she finished licking her fingers. “Arkady-immai, blanket, down.”

  “Yes, it’s down.” he said, patting it, then reaching for her hand so that she could touch it.

  “Not. Arkady-immai down.” She shoved his shoulder, not roughly but with great determination. “Clothes down.”

  Arkady blinked. “What…?”

  She paid no attention to his question, but began to unwrap his arm. She touched the skin around the cut and sniffed at it. “Not good,” she announced.

  “I know that,” he responded. He had known the wound would become infected. That was the way with wounds.

  “Down down down,” she insisted, pressing him back against the blanket and starting to unfasten his leather doublet.

  “Surata, for the Saints in Heaven—” He tried to get her to stop, for he was now really distressed. It was bad enough that she knew he was hurt, but to discover the rest would shame him. He started to push her away, swearing to himself, when her hands touched his forehead.

  “Arkady-immai,” she said in a still voice. “Down.”

  Slowly he lay back with the languor of a dreamer. “Right,” he murmured as his resistance faded and his body surrendered to the drag of fatigue. He was vaguely aware that he was not acting at all properly, but he did not care. The way her hands moved on his face and neck was more soothing than victory and wine. Even when she began to remove his clothes, he did little to stop her. There was too much—what? he asked himself: sweetness? pleasure? lassitude?—in him to stop her. Under her ministrations, he drifted, his mind roving back through his memories.

  He had been so little that he could not see over the top of the table. He remembered peering at the rushes beneath, seeing the vermin there. At first they had fascinated him, but when he tried to get closer, a mouse had turned on him and sunk tiny teeth into his thumb. He had gone wailing to his mother who had bandaged the thumb but laughed at him. The humiliation of her derision still stung him, though she had been dead for seven years.