An Oath of Dogs

by Wendy N. Wagner

He felt increasingly nervous as he made his way toward the first site.

  The wrongness hit him like a punch to the nose. The smell alone would have warned him that something had gone terribly wrong. He broke into a run, crashing through the button ferns and slipping on exposed stones. He came to a halt in a patch of Christ’s fingers along the edge of the carefully marked plot.

  “Shit,” he whispered.

  The horsetail tree stood tall, its top green and still perfectly erect. But the undergrowth, a rich variety of button ferns and lichens, was dead. Every last inch had succumbed to some sort of gray, powdery mildew that was like nothing he’d seen before on this world. The stink of it hung over the whole area. Peter reached for the mask he kept in his field pack. He had to see more closely.

  He brought out his hand unit and began taking pictures. Mark Allen had to see this.

  Mark had said this stuff was safe enough to bathe in, and Peter trusted Mark. But maybe Songheuser’s chemical people couldn’t have predicted this. They worked in clean rooms where mildew never had a chance to spread. This chemical might be perfectly harmless in a laboratory, but in a real forest with real humans carrying their own microbiota, things were obviously different.

  A tiny sound stopped him, and he knelt down beside the slimy remains of a stand of rock-eater lichen. A tree scooter scrabbled between the shriveled, blackened bits of lichen. Peter leaned closer. The scooter skidded on a patch of damp slime and came to a stop on the rock. Its antennae trembled uncontrollably. Between the segments of its furry pink body, he could see dark threads of the same mildew that had killed the plants. The scooter fell on its side, its legs flailing in agony. Then it curled tight, shook itself all over, and went still.

  Everything in this four-hundred-meter square was dying.

  Peter jumped to his feet and began to run. He had to see the second test site.

  My own choices undid me and ruined my people. I have struggled to understand what happened here in Canaan Lake, but I do know that when things grew terrible here, we acted as dogs.

  Oh, my poor, sweet people: We acted as dogs, and we became as dogs.

  — from MEDITATIONS ON THE MEANING OF EVIL, by MW Williams

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  STANDISH LOOKED from the house on the corner to the paper in her hand. The descriptions on these Sector 10 easements were frustratingly uninformative, lacking names or detailed platting notations. She’d been sure this farm was the one mentioned in the document, but there was no cable box here beside the road.

  Defeated, she got back in her UTV. Her duties rarely took her onto Believer property, and now she was glad of it. Even in their legal documents, the neo-Mennonites operated differently from the rest of the world. None of the farmers owned their own land — it was all held by a larger community group, the property managed by church elders. The Believers she’d spoken to either refused to answer her questions or pretended they weren’t worldly enough to understand what she was asking.

  She’d have to ask Matthias for help. He may have been a Believer, but he certainly didn’t act like the rest of them. He had an old-fashioned quality about him, but at least he lived in the same reality she did.

  A young woman opened the gate beside the road and led a brown cow out of it, the rest of the small herd stringing along behind them. Standish tapped the steering wheel impatiently.

  “Rush hour in Canaan Lake, Hattie,” she grumbled. The dog stretched out on the seat and rested her head on her paws.

  The girl caught sight of Standish and her eyes widened. She dropped a half curtsey. “Sorry, good woman!”

  “No problem,” Standish called back.

  She scanned the field as she waited for the cows. A sturdy white farmhouse and barn sat on the field’s flanks, their doors and shutters emblazoned with the brightly painted crosses and floral designs so typical of the Believers here in Canaan Lake. She liked the colors, actually. It brought a cheer to the farms that was missing in the town’s muddy streets.

  The last cow strolled by, and Standish started up the engine. She reached Matthias’s house shortly. Hattie had settled into a deep sleep on the short drive, so Standish left her in the vehicle while she approached the front gate.

  “Ho, Standish,” Matthias called. He pulled the last envelope from his antiquated mailbox. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I’ve got a couple of cable junction boxes I need to find, and I thought you might be able to tell me more about them. The property easements are useless.”

  He flipped through his mail as they walked. “I’d be happy to take a look at them,” he said absently. Then he stopped in his tracks.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Shane!” Matthias bellowed. “Get down here and see this.”

  Standish hadn’t noticed the battered-looking ladder leaning against the side of the barn, or Shane Vogel working at the top of it. He must be updating the hex image on the barn as Mei Lin had suggested.

  The stocky man made his way down to the ground, a small paintbrush tucked behind his ear. “What is it?”

  Matthias held out a piece of paper, and the men stood in silence as Shane read it. Standish studied the hex. Another colorful floral design, lots of reds and yellows. She liked it, although it seemed subtly different than the art at the other farms she’d seen.

  “They’re trying to get rid of us, Matthias. Their first attempt failed, so now they try again, with higher costs. It’s Songheuser, and you know it.”

  “It’s not Songheuser. We have a deal.”

  “You and your deals,” Shane spat. “Look what it’s done for us.”

  “I’ll take care of this. Songheuser—”

  “Songheuser’s not the only answer. The rest of us have been talking. Maybe Vonda and Orrin are right. Maybe it’s time for a change in leadership.”

  Matthias’s face twisted and went red. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Then he spun on his heel and marched toward his house.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Shane narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you care?”

  “I care because I’m Matthias’s friend.” She folded her arms over her chest. She thought she’d imagined the unfriendliness she’d felt the last time she’d seen Shane Vogel, but today it came off him in waves.

  “You’re an outsider, and you’re trying to influence Matthias. I don’t trust you or your friend Peter Bajowski. He’s always been against us.”

  “I’m not—”

  But Shane was already walking away. He grabbed the sides of the ladder and hurried up it, his feet thudding on the wooden treads with the weight of his anger.

  There was a horrible crunch, and Standish spun around to see Shane flail at the air, the shards of a broken rung clattering to the ground. The ladder wobbled and then canted sharply.

  For an instant, he hung in the air, the ladder balanced on one leg.

  But only for an instant. Then he was falling.

  “Shane!” Standish screamed, running toward him.

  The man lay flat on his back, the ladder crumpled beneath him. Broken wood and yellow paint had gone everywhere.

  “Are you all right?” She dropped to her knees beside him.

  His eyes were open, and he blinked at her. She reached for his hand. “Can you talk?”

  His mouth flapped like a fish’s and no sound came out. She felt something warm and wet against her knee and saw blood pooling around her.

  “Matthias! Help!”

  So much blood. But she couldn’t see a wound. She undid the buttons of his black coat with shaking fingers. The linen shirt beneath showed a spreading red stain on his side.

  She ripped open the shirt. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

  Now she could see the tip of wooden rung sticking out of his belly, the wooden rung that had pierced him in the back and gone all the way through his torso.

  “We’ve got to get you to Space City, quick.”

  “No.” Matthias’s voice sounded behind her. “We don’t
believe in that. If God has destined Shane to die, then this is his time.”

  She stared at him. “How can you say that? So calm, like you don’t give a shit? This is your friend! He’s going to die if we don’t get him to a doctor!”

  “If it’s my time to die, I’ll die.” Shane gave a dry laugh. “Right, Matthias?”

  She turned back to the injured man. He’d gone pale, nearly gray, and as he gasped for air, the bloody wooden spike trembled. A rivulet of blood ran down his side, diverted sideways by a lumpy scar on the other side of his belly. The purple keloid tissue looked just like a cross.

  A cross. It was like their stupid religion was laughing at her. How could they believe so devoutly that they would refuse medicine they needed? How could they live like this?

  Matthias squeezed her shoulder. “Standish. Please go get Mei Lin. Shane doesn’t have much time.”

  Standish got to her feet. The wet stain of Shane’s blood, cold now, made the knees of her pants cling to her flesh. She lurched away from the two Believers, her heart sick with what she’d just seen. The waste of it. Shane, throwing his life away — for what? Some ancient rule the rest of humanity had given up centuries ago.

  She glanced over her shoulder at them. Matthias had taken her place beside Shane, holding his hand. She could see the hex Shane had been painting, the yellow splatters of spilled paint. The flowers looked funereal now.

  Flowers. There were only flowers on Matthias’s barn. She got into the UTV and reached dully for the ignition. That was the difference between the art on his house and barn and the other Believers’: no crosses, despite how much he believed in them.

  PETER’S KEYS slipped out of his fingers with a jangle. Christ, his hands were sweaty. But how could they not be? How could he be anything but terrified after seeing those ruined, mildewed patches in his forest? Mike Allen’s degassing compound was a chemical threat on a par with DDT or Agent Orange.

  They couldn’t use this on a large scale. Even if there was a way to eradicate the mildew spores that were endemic to human development, if they put this on the forest they risked environmental devastation. Sector 14 was part of their own watershed, and if that stuff got in the water supply — he couldn’t even let himself think about it. This new degassing compound had the power to turn the entire moon into an uninhabitable stretch of rock.

  He’d nearly uploaded the pictures right there in the woods before reason hit him. He couldn’t trust email with this. Someone had blown up the mill at Jawbone Flats just because they hated logging — what would they do if they learned Songheuser was testing a toxic chemical that could kill the whole forest? Peter wanted environmental protections as much as any environmentalist, but not at the expense of human lives. He knew people who worked in the mill. For every company toady like Joe Holder, there was a Lou or a Niketa, decent folk just trying to get by.

  No, he had to go to Space City and show Mark his data in person. He fumbled the key into his office door.

  A clattering spun him around. A woman stood at the end of the skybridge, her pink raincoat dripping on the carpet.

  “Belinda? What are you doing up here?”

  She hastily picked up the purse she’d dropped. “I’m here to see you.”

  “In the skybridge?”

  “I got turned around, that’s all.” She hurried toward him, gripping his elbow. She smelled powerfully of ferns. “I’ve got to talk to you, Peter.”

  “Now isn’t really a good time—”

  But she was already squeezing between him and the doorframe, pressing her way inside his office. He followed with a sigh.

  “This is your office, huh?” She went straight to the window terrariums. “I love these things you’ve built. The creatures and plants are so beautiful.”

  He reached for the I+ glasses on his desk. “I’m only here a minute; I’ve got to head out. Maybe we can talk later.”

  She turned to face him. “This is important, Peter. What I’ve got to say could change your life.”

  “You’ve already changed my life. I had a visit from Sheriff Vargas. I know what you told her about the night Duncan died.”

  “I just told her the truth.”

  “It wasn’t the truth, and you know it. You hurt your foot the week before Duncan went missing. I wasn’t at the bar taking care of you that night.”

  She took a step closer. Her red-blond hair had strings of moss in it. “Peter, I admire you so much. You’re not just another brainy biologist. You’ve got guts. You were the only person who tried to stop that trudgee fight ring, the only one in the whole town who gave a damn about those little creatures. When I heard about that, I knew I had to find a way to get you on my team.”

  He took a step backward. The look on her face, the gleam in her eyes — the zeal came off her in palpable waves. “What are you saying?”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder why I came here? I mean, no one comes here just to be a bartender.” She gave a little laugh and stretched out her hands to him. “The group that sent me knows that people need wilderness. Without it, they go crazy. Just look at all those sad sacks back there on Earth.”

  “I have to leave, Belinda,” he said. “I have to go to Space City.” He put his I+ glasses in his pocket and backed toward the door. “If you don’t leave with me, I’ll have to call security.”

  “There’s more to it than just nature, Peter. When you believe in it, Huginn can make you something entirely new. Something more than just human.” She took another step closer. “Become one of us. With your brains and your connections, you could help us do so much.”

  “I don’t want hear any more. Just go.”

  “Don’t you feel Huginn reaching out to you? Can’t you hear its voice at night, begging you to help it? I do, Peter. And I think you do, too.” The words burst from her like a stream escaping its dam, and she broke off, half-gasping for breath. She swallowed and reached out to him again. The palms of her hand were a deep green, like the skin of a horsetail tree. “Once you let yourself believe, you become a part of Huginn. I know you love this world and that you want to save it. So join us!”

  He sidestepped her. “You sound crazy.”

  “I know you have what it takes. I’m giving you a chance, and if you don’t take it, you’ll regret it.”

  “A chance to do what? Blow up sawmills? No thanks.” He opened the door and held it wide. “Get out of here.”

  “You’re making a huge mistake. Remember that I gave you a chance.”

  She went out the door and he closed it behind her, sagging against the frame. He ought to call Sheriff Vargas and warn her Belinda was nuts.

  And she’d left her purse on the windowsill beside his terrariums. He thought about going through it, but he didn’t have time. He’d drop it off at the police station later.

  He glanced at his watch. He could still make it to Space City before the office closed. Belinda was trouble, but this degassing compound was a far bigger problem. He’d find Standish and let her know about Belinda’s breed of eco-psychosis when he got back from the city. Together, they’d figure out what to do.

  He opened the door, checked the halls for the redheaded bartender, and then ran back downstairs as fast as he could. He hoped like hell Mark Allen could still stop Songheuser.

  HUGINN, Day 198

  It gets worse.

  We wrapped up the remains of the body and hid it in the root cellar, and then Doc and I went looking for Matthias. He had to know what had happened to it.

  We checked every field. We checked our house and the barn. No Matthias.

  Neither one of us wanted to go to the Morrises, not after that night with the baby, but if Matthias was anywhere, he’d be with Orrin or Shane. So we went to Orrin’s house in a kind of dread.

  No one answered, even though smoke rose from the chimney.

  “What if Vonda’s sick again?” I asked Doc. She’d looked so well the last time I saw her, but I’d buried too many of my friends not to be worried for her.

>   He pushed open the door.

  The smell of cooking made my stomach howl with hunger. If you’ve never gone hungry, maybe you don’t know what happens to the body when it smells food — real food, not sawdust skimped together with water and glue — for the first time in weeks. My mouth filled with saliva. My stomach wrenched itself into a knot of painful need.

  Had they been stealing from our stores? How could they have food when no one else did?

  A pot of stew simmered on the embers of Vonda’s stove, but there was no sign of Vonda or Orrin. Doc rushed to the stove while I stood at the edge of the room, held back as if by some invisible fence. There was something wrong with Vonda’s kitchen. A strange smell came from that pot, a smell I didn’t like.

  I took a tentative step toward her counter. There were her knives, brought all the way from Earth in their knife block, just like mine, but beside them, Orrin’s big hunting knife lay in its scabbard. A thumbprint showed on the soft leather, made from something dry and brown.

  Old blood, I was certain of it.

  I suddenly saw the cow Mei Lin and I had slaughtered, its eyes pink-rimmed from anemia. We all blamed the leather birds for the wounds on our livestock, but the cuts had always bothered me — they’d been so neat and artificial, the kind of cut a sharp knife might make.

  This old stain was the kind of stain that might have been made by someone slicing open a vein in a calf’s leg to collect its blood for his sick wife.

  I felt a sudden certainty. Orrin Morris: that’s what had happened to the cows, and that was why Vonda was so much healthier than everyone else. They had stolen from the entire community for their selfish gain.

  “They’re dogs,” I whispered. “Thrice damned greedy dogs!” (Writing this, I can’t believe how close I was to the truth — and how far away.)

  I turned to see Doc blowing on a ladleful of clear broth. He took a long drink of the stuff.

  “What does it taste like? I think they’ve been bleeding the livestock.”

  He spat a hunk of gristle into his palm. “That’s not blood. We haven’t butchered any of the sheep or goats — so where’d it come from?”