Moonrise

by Mitchell Smith

  The children stood a fair way off, watching. And, Patience supposed, must see a little woman, worn, white-haired, and wounded, hobbling with her weight of log in a blue coat too big for her. "...Once," she wished to call to them, "Once I was young and beautiful and fierce, and flew fighting over a great battle. This — this you see, is not who I really am."

  Some children were bending, looking for stones.

  * * *

  Richard came to rouse Baj at dark before dawn — startling him so he rolled out of his blanket, the rapier half-drawn before he woke.

  A massive shape in the night, Richard made a reassuring puh puh puh sound. "We're up, and we go. We had our fire-place; now we run away from it." He stood waiting while Baj rolled the blanket, settled his sword-belt and dew-damp pack, bow, and quiver, then he lumbered softly away.

  Baj yawned and followed, tramping through pine scrub. His battered boots were already uncomfortable — the sole of the left was separating a little on the side.

  ... By sun-well-up, they were off the mountain, and trailing along a draw where little waterfalls ran musical as if the mountain wept to see them go. It seemed to Baj a promising notion for a pretty poem, when he had leisure to write it... had pulp-paper, quill pen, and squid ink. And happened still to be breathing.

  Nancy had had nothing to say to him all morning. A relief, and an annoyance. Whether it was her part-father fox — whose supposedly minor contribution seemed to have had considerable effect — or one of the parent humans involved, the result had been a girl (a Person) very slow to forgive.... It seemed to Baj he'd been too easy, too courteous with her. She was not, after all, an Island lady. Not even some girl-Ordinary of a river town. An oddity, was what she was. A pain in the ass...

  Here, in the folds of the mountain's skirt, breezes blew warm enough for stands of rhododendron just blossoming in thick unfurling purples... ragged whites. Baj found it difficult to imagine the Warm-time world, when these must have been cool-weather plants and blooms, not constrained to so short a summer. Those people would have enjoyed flowers for half the year....

  Richard leading, then Nancy, then Baj — Errol, as usual, pacing somewhere beside or behind — they trailed wending through flowering shrubs, the green heights of their last mountain close above and behind them... the heights of the next rising before.

  Birds flew sifting through the foliage, a flock of little birds as bright gold as any Kingdom coin. They whirled, chirping, then spun away into the trees.

  Baj followed the others through this wild garden, overarched in places by great oaks and what he thought might be tulip trees. Then out onto a level sunny enough for drifts of small blueberry bushes and bilberry, already started fruiting — forced, as all growing things were forced, to hurry before Lord Winter came again.

  Poems everywhere, it seemed to Baj — and if not for his boot, and difficult Nancy, he would have been... content. He bent to comb a little cluster of blueberries from a short bush as he passed, found them still sour-tart but very nice.

  A startled yelp up ahead. — Then a scream.

  Baj thought of Nancy, drew and ran, flicking shrubbery aside with the rapier's blade. Damned boot...

  He came running out into a wider glade, and four figures turned to watch him. The three Persons — and a woman. She was short and almost fat, with considerable gray streaked through brown hair plastered flat with grease, and decorated with a tuft of blue feathers. Barefoot in a sheepskin kilt, she stood with veteran breasts bare on a torso scarred with intricate feather patterns from her belly to her throat.

  A woven berry-basket lay upturned beside her, picked blueberries spilled like little semiprecious stones.

  There were no other tribespeople in the glade.

  Baj sheathed his sword, paused to catch his breath. "... Is anyone with you? Anyone near?"

  The tribeswoman only stared at him, mouth tight shut. Richard and Nancy stood as silent.

  Baj walked closer to the Robin — certainly a Robin woman by the feathers in her hair. He held his hands out to show no weapons. "We are travelers, and mean you no harm."

  Silent staring.

  "Your village... how near?"

  Then the woman answered in swift clattering pidgin, through which only fuck and you came in clear book-English. Recovered from startlement, she seemed a little tough.

  "Mind your manners, savage!" Baj said, and was instantly amused at such haughty nonsense — by a Once-was-a-prince with broken boots and partial beasts for friends.

  A long silence, then. Only buzzing insects, only a few birdcalls sounding.

  Errol came trotting into sunlight, shook his head.

  "She came alone," Richard said.

  The woman stared at him, surprised apparently to hear him speaking.

  "Her village," Nancy said, "can't be far, for her to come out by herself."

  "I apologize," Baj said to the woman, "— for my rudeness. This is your country, not mine." He made a passing and going way gesture. "We only travel through."

  She stood staring at him. She was more than old enough to have been his mother — certainly was someone's mother... grandmother. The picked berries, likely baked in wild-oat flour with sheeps' cheese, would be meant for childrens' pleasure.

  "Baj," Nancy called as if to wake him. "Baj... we cannot let her loose."

  "Her village," Richard said, "— must be an easy walk. So, an easy run for the warriors who would chase us down."

  A silence, then, of different quality than woods noises left when still. Baj felt a cool shadow, as if a cloud had come over, though the sky was sweet blue, with no cloud in it. "If we left her, and she understood — don't they honor promises they give? Oaths?"

  Richard cleared his throat. "Their women cannot swear honor."

  Baj saw in the woman's eyes that she understood enough. Intelligent eyes, a very light blue.... He saw she must have been pretty, in a stocky, sturdy way, when she was a girl.

  She seemed tensed to run a hopeless running. A tiny vessel pulsed at the side of her throat.

  I don't have the right, Baj said to himself, then said aloud, "We don't have the right."

  "No," Richard said, "— we don't. But must do it anyway."

  "Her children," Baj said, and knew it was a stupid thing to say.

  More of that clouded silence.

  Baj felt something in him leaning... leaning, and he leaned against it. "We tie her hard to a tree, and leave. It will be a while before they come searching, and find her. Time enough for us to be well gone."

  "Unless they come searching soon," Nancy said. "Unless other women come after her to pick blueberries."

  "Chance enough to take," Baj said.

  "No, Baj," Richard shook his head. "A chance too much to take."

  "We tie her," Baj said, "— and leave her."

  "No." Richard, looking sorrowful, weary as a festival's dancing bear, took his ax from his shoulder.

  As if he were dreaming, Baj recalled his sword's engraving — With Good Cause — and drew it. He faced Richard, stepped out a little for room.

  Richard said, "Oh, dear," looked even sadder, and held his ax now with both hands.

  "We tie her, and leave her." Baj was surprised how steady his voice sounded... and how, as he spoke, he was considering what best chance he might have against this so formidable Person — formidable and, of course, a friend. A poor chance. A poor chance no matter what, though perhaps time and space, if he was fast enough, for one thrust only before the great ax caught him.... There was the oddest feeling of freedom.

  "No no no!" Nancy came bounding, shifting in between them as if she were dancing. Baj was pleased to see she hadn't drawn the scimitar. There was not enough of him to kill the girl... to save the woman.

  He stood still and on guard in the sunshine, as if to let his decent sword decide. The left-hand dagger wouldn't care.

  Nancy stood panting before him. He smelled her sweet vulpine odor in the sunshine warmth. "No..." she said.

  "
Stand away, dear." Richard took a step.

  Baj, though he felt like weeping, also thought he'd been correct to leave matters to the steel, since the rapier turned a little with his wrist for flatter thrusting through massive ribs, its hilt settling into his hand, unafraid, with a slight flourish of the needle tip.

  Nancy, standing between them, turned to Richard as he came pacing on. "Worse! Worse than the chance of tying her! This is certain badness!"

  Baj barely heard. Past her — almost, it seemed, through her — he saw Richard quite clearly... noticed every motion of the ax. "Remember an ax has a heavy handle, that may also strike." Some previous Master's saying...

  "I know why you stand there," Richard said to her. There was a summer insect, perhaps a bee, buzzing through the air — a precious bee, it seemed to Baj, through precious air.

  "Still," Richard said, after a moment, "— a chance of badness, is better than badness certain." The double-edged ax swung left... then right and back up onto his heavy shoulder.

  And Baj's sword sheathed itself with no regrets.

  * * *

  They camped in early evening, lower again, along a rivulet running a wide, lightly treed valley, with birches in wandering stands where the narrow water turned.

  An early, cold camp, with cold venison and a handful of blueberries each. Baj, Nancy, and Richard sat eating as if around a fire — Errol still wandering.... Finished with his second chop, the big Person turned to manage the thick roll of tanned leather from his pack.

  "Baj," he said, "— give me your boots."

  "Why?"

  "For measure to make you moccasins," Nancy said, "— is why. Unless you want your toes out in the weather; we'll be north and out of summer soon enough, and your boots are no boots anymore."

  "Moccasins..." Baj pulled his boots off. "Thank you, Richard."

  Richard grunted, distracted — stretched leather out across his lap, then set the left boot sole to it... marked a close outline with a horny thumbnail.

  Errol, with a rustle through tall grass, caught up to the camp ahead of his long, fading shadow — stared at them a moment — then dug in Nancy's pack, found a venison rib, and squatted a way away to gnaw it. He seemed to find a tough tendon along the bone, and drew a knife to slice it free.

  Baj noticed the blade was marooned with drying blood. — And knew at once, knew himself a fool, and started to his feet. Nancy caught his arm to hold him.

  "Baj, we gave him no order. Richard told him nothing, gave him no sign, either."

  "But you knew."

  "Yes. We knew... maybe."

  "More than maybe. You knew, once she was tied to that fucking tree with a rag of cloth in her mouth — you knew he'd circle back to kill her. It's what the Boston-woman said he likes to do to anyone helpless."

  "Yes... sometimes."

  "I forgot that, forgot him — but you and Richard didn't forget." Baj felt sick with anger, as if this particular killing stood for all foolish murders. "You acted a lie. And still the Robins will find her!"

  "But not soon, Baj. Errol hides what he does, tucks it under logs .. . under tree roots. They'll find their dead lady late — and by then, not know who or how many or where they went."

  Baj thought of killing the boy, saw the sword-thrust very clearly . .. then decided not. "It was his knife — but your acting a lie allowed it. I'll remember, when trust-time comes again."

  Richard drew a bright little curved blade from his belt... began to trace his marking deeper into the leather, deeper, then slowly sliced through along his pattern. "My responsibility, Prince. My fault.... We had no more time for the truth, and argument."

  "Our responsibility," Nancy said.

  "Don't tell me," Baj said. "Go back and tell the woman's people how — when she'd been gathering berries for children's pleasure — you left her tied and gagged-silent, so a beast-boy could go back to cut her throat."

  "We are not bad!" Nancy said.

  "... So, Richard," Baj sat beside him again, "— how are moccasin-boots made?" And listened with every sign of interest to relieved rumbled explanations of double-soling, of working inside-out for interior stitching, of uppers to be cross-laced to just below the knee, all while Richard finished leather-cutting, then threaded fine tendon sinew to a strong curved needle.

  "We are not bad," Nancy said. But Baj paid no attention, and after a while she got up and walked away from camp.

  "The toes," Richard said, "— I turn up a little at the tip; to ward mud and puddle-water away. But the secret to moccasins is regular mending, and greasing along the stitching, particularly. Not heavy greasing."

  "Regular mending," Baj said, "— and light greasing."

  "Yes, and you'll find the foot wraps do better in moccasin-boots than stockings do."

  "They'll have to, since my stockings went in the river."

  "These will be warmer too, in the north, stuffed with pounded wool.... Baj, we are not bad Persons."

  "So, greasing — and, I suppose, drying them slowly when they're soaked."

  "... Yes." Richard bent his great head to bite through a strand of sinew.

  They sat quiet then for a long while, more than a Warm-time hour as the big Person worked, though Baj heard Nancy stomping under birches by the creek while he watched Richard's huge hands set deft stitches, driven as easily through double thicknesses of leather as single. He used a leather square — what Baj had heard called a "palm"— to back the needle.

  Darkness was coming slowly down, a cool cloak draped over them. Odd how missed a fire was; without it, they seemed to fall away into the night, where anything might stand waiting.... Soon, a sliced moon began to rise as a wind rose, as if flown into the sky like a celebration kite from Island's battlements. Moon-rise, appropriate in company with Moonriser Persons, that gave a clear soft silver light — enough light that Richard seemed to have no difficulty setting his stitches by it, which likely no full-human could have done.

  After a while, Richard said, "Try this on." He tied off a last sinew knot, bit it free, and held out what seemed a thick folded something — with long rawhide laces — but no boot. "Left foot."

  Baj bent to adjust the cloth wrappings on that foot, then fitted the soft leather on, laced it, and stood. It seemed little more than a thick stocking against the ground.

  Richard leaned to feel the fit. "Your feet will be sore in them for a day or two. Stepping on pebbles... rocks."

  "No doubt."

  "But after, very comfortable, light, and easy to move in. You tie the lacing crossways tighter or looser. Tie them all the way up — or fold the top down."

  Baj took a few uneven steps through weedy grass. "It seems to fit...." He came back and sat. "Thank you, Richard. They'll do very well — and I won't complain about rocks or pebbles."

  The wind — as all night winds — seemed to have a touch of winter to it. Baj reached back for his cloak as Richard unfolded a second wide strip of leather, set Baj's worn right boot on it for pattern.... It seemed the only allowance he made for moonlight, was to peer at his work a little closer.

  The night wind seethed softly through the birches, promising that soon they would be north and nearer Lord Winter's wall, and the short summer left behind them like a dream. North to the Shrikes and Boston's Guard — their alliance, it seemed to Baj, likely to turn to war.

  "Little chance," he said aloud.

  Richard, silvered by the riding moon, raised his head from his work. "What?"

  "To win against New England."

  "No, not a good chance." Richard looked down at his work, peered closer, and sewed again. "Not a good chance — but better than no chance." He broke a tendon thread, said "Shit," and knotted off the end... then rethreaded his needle, an impressive thing to accomplish in such soft light. "Though perhaps Frozen Jesus may help us."

  "Frozen, Floating, or Mountain Jesus — they've spent a long time helping only armed men, and rich men, and clever men... and no one else at all."

  "Yes." Richard rais
ed his head from his work, his great crest of hair... of fur... powdered with moonlight as with snow. "But that is only surface knowing; an old man with coyote in him, told me that truth-fishes swim beneath all surfaces."

  "Gulf sharks, perhaps," Baj said. "Except for the Coopers, I've known only decent people murdered." Saying so, he hadn't meant the Robin woman as well, but saw that Richard took it so.

  "Still, wrongs may be made right."

  "It seems to me, Richard — and not speaking of the Robin woman — that to go against Boston as is planned, is to win on a carpet of captive women's corpses. In what way is that not true?"

  Richard set his needle down. "It is true — true, and the only way the tribes and Person Guards will be freed to see to it that other daughters and granddaughters and great-granddaughters will not someday also be taken for hostage breeders.... How can Frozen Jesus object?"

  "How not?"

  Richard bent to his slicing and sewing. "Baj, you were a prince. What are high Sunrisers taught of Greats and Gods? Is there only Lady Weather, her sad daughter, Summer, and the Winter Lord?... Do the Jesuses speak together, or quarrel among themselves, so that many matters go badly? Or is there no Great at all, but only chance?"

  "... I'm not the one to ask."

  "You must have considered those questions." Richard bit his thread, knotted the end, and plucked at the stitching to test it.

  "Mmm... Listen, Richard, I'm twenty years old, and was nothing but a whore-house, booze-house fool many of those years .. . though I did hope to become a competent poet. So, deep questions are still too deep for me, though at least I have the sense to know it."

  "But you were taught by wise people."

  "Yes. Yes, I was well taught — and paid no attention to any of it, though my brother did. Newton, or old Peter Wilson, would have been the ones you needed for serious questions. They both . .. both would have had good answers for you."