by Rhett DeVane
What draped her body since losing Jen was beyond normal fear. This emotion glued her feet to the dirt and closed off her throat. For the first time since she had emerged from her birth crystal, Jondu wished to hide underground and seldom venture topside.
“Are you all right?” Genevieve asked. The downy feathers around the owl’s neck lifted, flicked by the breeze.
Jondu’s shoulders drooped. “No. I’m not.”
“The trail to the base has cleared,” Genevieve said. “It’s muddy and several streams crisscross the low spots. But it’s passable.”
Jondu didn’t move. “I see.”
“Will you report this to Taproot?”
Did Genevieve see through to Jondu’s crumpled soul? The owl showed no sign of empathy. Why would she? Pensworthy owls feared little. Their only enemy was another owl, or a lowlander.
“I’ll . . . I’ll . . . sure.” Jondu pivoted and dove into the tunnel, relieved to be away from the sunlight and the questioning golden eyes.
She called out before entering the magician’s quarters.
“Might as well come in!” a deep voice answered. “Everyone else has barged in today, why not?”
She hesitated. Taproot sounded aggravated, the way Jondu felt whenever someone interrupted her mapping hobby. She inched forward and peered around the threshold. Taproot sprawled on his sofa, a mug cradled in his hands. Elsbeth, Taka-Herb, Mari, Brick, Gabby, and Slate occupied the sitting stones around him.
“Didn’t know we were having a meeting.” Jondu slid into a vacant seat.
“We weren’t. We all just ended up here.” The lines on The First Mother’s face grew deeper. “We’re trying to come up with a plan.”
“Where have you been?” Taproot asked. “The others searched high and low.” He waggled his finger. “It’s no time to just up and disappear.”
“Yeah,” Gabby said, rushing to great her. “We thought you were . . . gone . . . too.”
Jondu held up her palms. “Sorry. I was topside.”
“What?!” a blend of voices said.
“I was taking a look around.” And getting myself more frightened about it, she thought but didn’t add. “Good thing too, ’cause I saw Genevieve Pensworthy. She said the passes are clear.”
The clan, what was left of it, jabbered at once. Taproot tried to speak, but the cacophony of voices covered his words. He jerked to his feet and clapped. Everyone stopped talking and stared.
“Better. Now. Here’s the deal. I’ll travel to the base to search for Sim and Grant.”
The rabble started anew. Taproot clapped his hands again. “Lock the lips.” Silence. “Repeat. I will go to the base.”
Elsbeth cleared her throat. Heads pivoted her way. “I’m coming too.” When Taproot opened his mouth to reply, she said, “I. Am. Coming. With. You.”
Taproot lifted one eyebrow. A slight smile toyed with his lips. “Is that right, Princess?”
Elsbeth stretched to her full height and pulled back her shoulders. “I am The First Mother.”
“So you are.”
Jondu scrambled to her feet and paced in front of the hearth. She halted, faced Taproot and Elsbeth. “I’m going.”
Taproot turned toward Elsbeth. “I don’t think . . .” The mountain man pulled his beard. “Actually, what do you think, Princess?”
Elsbeth sighed. All of this digging within was tiresome. She’d much rather Taproot decide. When he continued to stare at her, Elsbeth shifted her attention to Jondu.
Did her spirit-daughter harbor the same grinding sorrow that plagued Elsbeth’s every thought? Raking through tidbits of conversations, images of those horrible moments after the massive ice cloud settled. Wondering what if until she wanted to jab a sharpened stick into her ears to stop the inner voice. Huddling over her art pad, scratching sketch after sketch of Jen, Grant, and Sim so she wouldn’t forget their smiles. Grant’s lips only tilted up a little at one edge, and he managed to look deep and thoughtful. Sim pursed his lips and rolled his eyes upward. Probably just called her Lizard the Lousy seconds before. And Jen . . .? Elsbeth drew multiple images of her first spirit-daughter, trying to capture the bouncy, boundless energy behind her impish expression.
Fresh sadness threatened to slam Elsbeth.
Action had to be the best balm.
“Jondu goes with us.” Elsbeth turned to Taproot. “She must.”
Sim looked at Grant’s right lower leg. Formed out of rubbery material, it resembled the natural left leg and foot. A sleeve at the top fastened the device to the stump.
“It’s not the best prosthesis in the world,” Stitch said. “But better than those tongue blades you two had tied together.” He smiled. “Have to give you credit for being inventive, though.”
“You must do this a lot,” Grant said. He stood and balanced, then gave a thumbs-up.
“More than I’d like to count.” The medic’s expression softened. “Feels good to be able to do something positive.” He motioned toward the door. “I haven’t been able to help my guys out there, lately.”
Grant took a tentative step and caught his balance against Sim’s shoulder.
“Here. I forgot to give you this.” Stitch handed Grant a tiny walking cane. “Best to use it for a while, until you get the hang of how your body balances on that new leg. Put it on the stump side rather than the good leg.” Stitch grabbed a broom handle and used it to demonstrate the proper way to position a cane. “It’ll come naturally to you after a while. Pity I can’t spend more time doing rehab, but I need to help you two little dudes get home.”
A weight slammed against the door. Then it opened. Stitch flung a towel cover over the cage. Sim and Grant leaned together, listening to the muffled conversation. The door snicked closed. The cover lifted.
“That was close,” Stitch said.
“We’ll leave tonight,” Sim stated.
“No. Now. One truck just dumped off a fresh squadron. More on the way.”
“Wait.” Sim’s gaze flicked toward the door. “Won’t there be a lot of soldiers moving around?”
“I’m counting on it. Best time to walk out of here unchallenged.”
“Distraction is our friend,” Grant said. He pulled on his jacket. Sim did the same.
Stitch opened a camouflage-printed daypack. “Come aboard, little dudes.”
They crawled inside and Sim located a couple of grommets to use as peepholes. Stitch left the storeroom and passed three rows of sick patients. Sim heard moans and cries. Some of the men thrashed on their cots. Others were unnaturally still, like that first soldier Sim had watched, close to crossing into the Light.
Sim watched the little pieces of the base he could see through the grommets. Soldiers walked by. Stitch acknowledged a few without breaking his pace. Trucks grunted noxious exhaust into the air. Equipment clanged. Everywhere, Sim saw frenzied activity and heard barked orders. The number of lowlanders swirling around Stitch made Sim’s chest hurt. He spotted the edge of the forest. Almost there!
“Hey! Stitch!” a sharp voice called out somewhere behind them. “Where’re you going, man?”
Stitch halted. “For a walk.”
“Let me clear it with Sarge, and I’ll go with.”
Grant’s eyes widened. Sim held a finger to his lips.
“No offense, dude,” Stitch said. “But I need a break from you grunts while I have coverage in the infirmary. You guys have been out joyriding in the hills. I’ve been snowed in, cleaning up puke and blood.” He paused. “I need some solitary. Even a couple of hours. Before I go nuts.”
Grant’s breathing sounded like mountain thunder in Sim’s ear. Hope the soldier couldn’t hear it.
“That’s cool,” the deep voice said.
Sim heard the sound of footsteps leading away.
“Me and the boys gonna play a few hands of poker tonight.” The same voice called out, from farther away. “Catch you later?”
“You got it.”
Sim held his breath. Below, Stit
ch’s boots crunched in the ice. Sim peeked from the grommet. Where were they heading? Seemed wrong. He let out his breath.
“Maybe he didn’t understand our directions,” Grant whispered.
Sim considered, then answered, “Stitch is sharp. Got to be a reason why we’re going this way.”
Traveling in this fashion wasn’t so different from when he hitched a ride with Taproot. The lowlander’s strides covered ground faster, with less bouncing. Sim could get used to such ease. Stitch stopped, turned ninety degrees to the left. Sim crawled up and slipped from the pack for a better look. Grant joined him.
Stitch stood in a flat, cleared area shellacked with ice and snow. Narrow crossed stakes rose in even lines.
“Where are we?” Sim spoke in a low voice, though no one seemed to be around.
“Base cemetery.”
“Oh.” Sim hadn’t been in too many graveyards. Once, when he was a small boy back in New Haven City, his father took him to one with rows and rows of white markers as far as he could see. Men lost in battle.
Next to the clan’s home valley, a small lowlander cemetery still stood. Some of the first people to pass through the Emerald Mountains, Taproot said. But no one-spirits were buried there, or anywhere else.
“In the past year, we’ve nearly filled up this patch of dirt,” Stitch said. “Had so many die recently, we had to stack the wrapped bodies in an outbuilding until we can bury them. Earth is frozen hard. We can’t dig their graves until it thaws.” Stitch walked the grounds, his head down. He stopped in front of one marker. “Timothy Barrows. My best friend. Since we were four years old.”
“War is stupid.” Sim clenched his teeth.
“Yea, little dude. I agree. We’ve managed to stall the invaders for over thirty years. And yes, it seems senseless. It is. But when something or someone threatens to wipe out your home and the people you love, you defend against it.” Stitch paused. “This last army would’ve plowed over these hills and trashed everything in its path.” He tipped his head toward the markers. “But Tim and most of these didn’t fall because of bullets.”
“What happened?” Grant asked.
“Tick fever. Tim died this past fall. Couldn’t do a thing to save him. At least he didn’t end up piled like cord wood. Got a decent burial before . . .” Stitch’s eyes watered. From the cold, or from something else? “All those high and mighty scientists, and they can’t find a cure. No matter for Tim. Too late for you, buddy.” Stitch kicked a clump of ice with the tip of his boot.
Sim studied the soldier’s profile. The clan had never lost one of its own. Had to be awful. He couldn’t wrap his mind around that.
No one spoke for a few seconds until Stitch said, “See the small marker next to Tim’s grave?”
“Yes,” they both said.
“That’s where I buried your little leg.” Stitch motioned to a tiny cross of painted wood. “In case you ever want to visit.”
Grant’s brows furrowed. “Thank you.”
Lowlander traditions are weird, Sim thought. Why would you wish to visit something no longer alive?
“Let’s get moving.” Stitch tipped his head. “You’d best get back inside the pack. Don’t think we’ll run up on anyone, but better to be safe.”
Sim and Grant crawled into the pack and took up position next to the grommet peepholes. Soon, Sim spotted familiar landmarks. For the first time in days, he felt happy.
Home wasn’t far away.
Chapter Eighteen
“We’ll wait until nightfall,” Jondu said. “I know I can slip—”
“Stop the yammering,” Taproot said in a low voice. “I don’t mind you and the Princess perching on my shoulders. I know it gets stuffy inside that pack, but your constant chatter sounds like twin hornets buzzing in my ears. Besides, voices carry in this cold air.”
A shushing noise sounded. Taproot halted and they all tuned their ears to the trail ahead. Heavy steps. A two-legged creature. A big one. The old mountain man jerked his head side to side, then lunged through the snow and hunkered down behind a thick stand of laurel bushes. This time, he didn’t have to warn Elsbeth and Jondu into silence.
The steps grew louder. A soldier’s head became visible, and then the rest of his body inched above the line of sight. Two figures sat atop his shoulders.
Before Jondu could consider her rash reaction, she called out. Taproot held up a stop hand. Elsbeth gasped.
Jondu rappelled down Taproot’s jacket and pants leg, and skittered through the depressions left by Taproot’s boots. She skidded onto the trail. The soldier halted, staring down with wide eyes.
“What—?” The soldier’s words stopped, cut short by the squeals from the two one-spirits atop his broad shoulders.
Sim slid down Stitch’s uniform, grabbing handholds on the camo-printed material. He landed on the ground with a thud and body-slammed Jondu. “Am I ever glad to see you.”
Elsbeth joined the two in a jiving hug fest. When they pushed apart, Jondu looked up to where Grant sat. Why wasn’t he coming down? And what were they doing, traveling with a soldier? Then Jondu took note of the strange contraption strapped to Grant. She looked at Sim.
“We have a lot to tell you,” Sim said. “But I’m super glad you’re here. I figured someone would search for us. Guess the weather’s been too bad.” He stopped. “Kind of thought Jen would come. No offense, Lizard, but you don’t care much for any sort of drama.”
Sadness draped over Jondu. How could she tell Sim and Grant, Jen had been part of the first failed rescue party?
Before Jondu could unglue her tongue, Taproot shuffled onto the trail and faced the lowlander. The soldier’s mouth remained in its open position. Guess a dwarf with a tangled beard added the final zing to three one-spirits hugging and gabbing on a mountain trail.
Sim tilted his head and smiled. “Suppose I should introduce you, Stitch. This is Taproot. And two other one-spirits, Elsbeth and Jondu.” His gaze fell from Stitch to Taproot’s level. “This is Stitch. He’s a medic. He saved us.”
Taproot extended his hand, frowned at it, wiped it on his jacket, stuck it out again. The soldier managed to close his mouth, and bent down to shake the proffered hand.
“Appreciate your aid, Stitch. Weird name for a lowlander army grunt.” The mountain man flicked a slight grin. “Reckon you’re no ordinary lowlander though.”
Two owls swooped down and landed overhead in a tree.
“Hey, Kenneth.” Sim waved the owls to descend to lower branches. “We made it out, see?”
“Indeed.” The great owl eyed Stitch, his expression guarded.
Genevieve ruffled her feathers and squawked. Sim and Jondu jabbered to the second owl.
“Wait.” Stitch motioned to the tree. “You can talk to birds?”
Sim grinned. “Not just any birds. These are Pensworthy owls. They’ve been friends of ours for years.”
“And of mine,” Taproot added, “for much longer than the one-spirits have known them.”
“Hmm,” Stitch said. “I’ve been up here for a good while, and I’ve never seen one of them up close.” His lips crooked into a lopsided grin. “Just when I figured talking to little people and a dwarf were sure signs I needed to check myself into a mental unit. Now I can add in little people that talk to owls.”
They shared a laugh.
Taproot gestured toward Jondu and the others. “I can take it from here, Stitch. You probably need to head back.”
Sim crooked his finger and the lowlander crouched down. “I’ll come and see you, Stitch. I promise.”
“Don’t venture onto the base, little dude. Not safe.” Stitch’s brown eyes rested on the others. “You all are best left to legend.” He paused a second. “Get close enough to call the signal, and I will meet you in the cemetery. No one goes there unless . . . Let’s just say, it’s not a place where people hang out.” He gently lifted Grant from his shoulder and placed him on the trail next to Sim. Grant wobbled before he caught his balance with th
e cane. Jondu and Elsbeth hugged him.
Jondu’s eyebrows scrunched together. From the looks of things, they all had stories to swap. Jen’s final chapter was the worst.
“You know the call we practiced, in case we became separated?” Sim held cupped hands to his lips. Twee. Twee. Twee.
Stitch nodded. When he smiled in his crooked way, that one dimple dotted his cheek.
Sim held up a fist and bumped it against the soldier’s much larger curled-up hand. “That’s how you’ll know it’s me, big dude.”
Two weeks passed. Elsbeth trailed after Taproot, lugging two crocks of honey. The last beams of sun painted the sky peach and crimson. The days had grown steadily longer, and the air warmed. Snowmelt flowed into the streams and ponds.
The balm of spring soothed Elsbeth. Sweet scents of new buds, the promise of life. After losing her first spirit-daughter, she needed spring. Chickweed, dandelion, brook greens. Her mouth watered for the taste of leafy plants picked fresh. She dreamed of ripe summer berries, sweetened by the sun.
Taproot whistled a little ditty. No doubt the old mountain man had brewed another of his noxious tonics for the Spring Festival of Light. Good for defeating the winter blahs and curing what ails a body, he claimed. The tonics made Elsbeth’s head swimmy, and her eyes lost focus. But the syrupy red liquid did whisk away any sadness clinging to her spirit. They could all use that, especially this year. Thank the Light Taproot hadn’t mentioned leaving on his walkabout.
Since their return to the clangrounds, Sim had kept to himself. Sullen, rarely joining the clan in the Common Hall, as if he couldn’t bear the presence of the others. Taka-Herb brewed various curative teas, leaving the pots beside his plate. No one noticed Sim coming and going, but the food and drink would go missing later. At least he wasn’t starving himself. Still, Elsbeth worried.
Grant coped with the loss of his lower right leg better than Sim. Every week, Grant appeared with a different whittled cane, modified to suit his purposes. He planned to dump-dive soon after the Spring Festival of Lights, a feat not easy even with two sound legs. Grant pondered his barriers and came up with solutions. Elsbeth noted how he practiced his loping stride, until the false leg swung easily alongside its natural counterpart.
