Moonrise

by Mitchell Smith

  There was a small silence, and she picked up a slate, scribbled on it with her thumbnail, and handed it to an officer. "Louis, see this done. I want every mount sound, or slaughtered. If a moose founders going north, the colonel and his officers will carry that load — the trooper or supplies — on their backs."

  "Ma'am." The officer left the pavilion.

  The general looked across her table. "Well...?"

  "For this campaign," Richard said, "— yes, my contract oath."

  "I also swear to it," Patience said.

  "Yes." Nancy nodded. "I swear."

  "And so for me," Baj said,"... if the General does the same."

  Another run of woman's laughter, the dangerous head thrown back to reveal a sinewy throat, lightly furred in white. "... Perhaps you are your fathers' son. And certainly fortunate I'm in such a good mood. I think rebellion suits me."

  "Suits you very well, Sylvia," her aunt said, "— and earned you many beatings at my hands."

  "Don't remind me," the Wolf-General said. Then, to Baj and the others, "As you swore campaign-loyalty to me and my companies, so I swear mine and theirs to you. And will forsake you, in or after battle, living or dead — never.... Also, each of you is assigned a private soldier's credit against pay," she smiled, "— pay to be issued when, and if, the paymaster's wagon is encountered.... Now, get out."

  "... This is something," the Sentry-officer said, as they came from the pavilion, "— that needs its head taken off." He shook a bruised Errol severely to make his point. "He tried to draw a knife on my men."

  "Well done," Nancy said, "— for nine soldiers to bully a brainsick boy."

  "Get the fuck off my post," the officer said, and shoved Errol into them.

  "His knives," Nancy said.

  "Henry," the officer said, "give these... people... their weapons. And the knives."

  "The General," Patience said, as they walked down-camp to Cavalry Street, "— appears to fulfill her reputation."

  "She is the best Boston has had commanding the Guard," Richard said, "— since Peter Fish-hawk. He conquered almost all the Coast of the Ocean Atlantic."

  "More than a hundred years ago," Patience said. "And didn't he go mad?"

  "He was mad to start with." Richard led to the right along Cavalry, toward the Lines. "Wolverine blood — even the usual eighth, and its tiny bits persuaded just so — is an uncertain portion to have."

  "The standard-bearer," Baj said, "— the sergeant at the pavilion?"

  "... Badger."

  They were passing a number of soldiers lounging at what seemed to Baj a sort of makeshift tavern — the usual leather lean-to, though larger than most, with a long counter of planks resting on six barley barrels. The Persons were drinking from leather jacks. Off-duty, none were armed or armored.

  "Beer...?" Baj said.

  "... Yes. The sutler's is a notion." Richard turned on his heel, started across the camp street. .

  "Absolutely not," Patience said. "Richard..."

  "Don't go." Nancy tugged at Baj's sleeve, held Errol's hand with the other. "It will only cause trouble." *

  "If we're her sworn soldiers, sweetheart — at least for a time — then we'll take soldiers' pleasures, and cause no trouble doing it."

  "Well," Patience said, "this is stupidity."

  But the Person troopers, though they stared, shifted aside to give them room. And a certainly Sunriser-human — small, withered elderly, and bundled in stained sheepskin against the wind — hobble-stepped up behind the plank counter, apparently lame.

  "And for a Boston lady," addressing Patience in a booze-worn voice, "— and memories of old times, I regret to have only barley beer and blueberry pie."

  "Do I know you?"

  "You knew me once. My colonel had me keep you back with the cooks when the Kipchaks came to Map-Arkansas."

  "Nearest Jesus," Patience said. "You're Sergeant —"

  "Givens, Lady. Jack Givens. An' General Butler's staff-officer said, 'Keep that little bitch away from the General.' Which I did try, but you'd fly away like a fuckin' bird, and what was I supposed to do, snow drifted up to our assholes?"

  The guardsmen, down the plank at either side, were interested.

  "It's a pleasure, Sergeant Givens," Patience reached over the plank counter to shake the old man's hand, "— to meet you again. Though I'm surprised you knew me after so many years."

  "I'd know them black eyes anywhere," the Sergeant said. "Thought at first you were that girl's mother — then said to myself, 'Don't be an ass, Jack; it's Patience Nearly-Lodge, the creature herself!"

  "And so I am," Patience laughed, "— the creature herself."

  "Those were days..." The old man stepped to dipper into a barrel — staggered a little, so Baj saw he'd already been drinking beer or better — filled a jack, and passed it over the planking. "Beer for you, darlin' — an' I brew it, an' it's good! Bake the fuckin' pies, too. Here," he filled and handed jacks over to Richard, Baj, and Nancy."— The kid?"

  It was the first time Baj had ever heard that so-common copybook word spoken, and not for a baby goat. Kid. Ancient slang for a child.

  "Better not," Nancy said, and took a swallow of hers. "... Excellent."

  "Always," the old man said. "Try pie. Friends of the Nearly-Lodge eat for almost free."

  "Good pies," a cavalryman said, looking human except for his ears.

  "This beer," Patience smacked her lips, "— is wonderful, Jack."

  Richard and Baj hummed agreement.

  "My problem," the old man said, "— is fuckin' freezin', so I got to beg a certain Person to be reasonable an' let me keep my beer kegs with the mooses, keep 'em just warm enough. — You know somethin' about pie? Pie can freeze. Don't hurt it. Give me a little fire to thaw 'em, an' I can serve pie the whole Lord Winter's season."

  "Is that so?" Patience said.

  "It is absolutely so," the old man said, and soldiers up and down the planks agreed.

  "An' I got dried apple from down south, an' apple butter, an' vinegar jerk-meat — well, sometimes. That's a short-summer thing, mainly."

  "Vodka?" Baj said.

  "One cup," a soldier said.

  "What he means," the old man made a face, "— is I can sell just one cup to each guardsman. One cup a day. More than that, Sylvia will cut my nuts off... not that I'd notice now."

  Amusement along the plank.

  "An' of course, no such rule for me. I drink what I fuckin' please."

  "You were in the Army," Baj said, "— in the Arkansas fighting,"

  "Yes I was, young man. Army of North Map-Mexico, servin' under Sam Monroe an' Fightin' Phil Butler — while the General lived — until there was a disagreement over a local young lady, that turned to a killin'. Not my fault at all, though I was chased up the river by cruel Provost-men like it was my fault... an' here I am after how many years wanderin', endin' among this bunch."

  "... You saw the Kipchak tumans?"

  "In that fight — yes indeed I did, came up the hill at 'em with poor fuckin' Oswald-cook an' his messmen, an' me pissin' my pants, you may be sure."

  "You saw the Khan?"

  "No, I did not, thank Jesus-in-the-Wall. An' that was battle enough for me. A fight's one thing, a battle's another — an' a sensible man knows the difference." He took a sip from his cup. "... An' speakin' of sensible, I see you're a proper Sunriser, young man, 'stead of havin' beastly portions beyond the traditional."

  Good-natured fists drummed along the plank. "Listen to 'em — an' take a look at this." The old man stooped to a shelf and brought up a large pie, its scalloped crust singed along the edge. "Costs me a fortune of money — tradin' up true rendered pig-fat an' wheat flour an' beet sugar from so fuckin' far south, then payin' camp whores to pick them dwarf berries, then bribin' the mess-oven cook — so I charge accordin'."

  "And that is?"

  "One slice — one day's pay. Credit's good."

  "Thief!" a Wolf-blood soldier said, and was agreed with down the p
lanks.

  "So? — Then fuckin' pick an' bake your own, Larry!" The old man set the pie down and leaned over his counter. "You an' me, young man — what is your slant-eye portion?"

  "Kipchak," Baj said.

  "Well... well, that's true-human, anyway."

  Groans down the plank, but pleasant enough. The old man was liked.

  "For you an' Lady Nearly-Lodge — an' your friends — a wedge-slice out of this particular pie for one half-day's pay each, collected at the count-out table on count-out day.... But not the dummy."

  "The boy, too," Baj said, Errol huddling close.

  "No."

  "All or none."

  "Absolutely no."

  "Then, none."

  The old man smiled; three upper teeth were missing. "Loyalty? Kin'ness? Willin'ness to share? — How old are you?"

  "Twenty."

  Satirical hums along the planks.

  The old man addressed his customers. "A fuckin' baby!... Listen, Twenty, you want this pretty girl here to think you're a clutcher what can't part with pay?"

  "All of us," Baj said, "— or none." And was encouraged by a chorus along the planks, more thumping of odd fists.

  "You're embarrassin' me here, Sunriser, among all these hairy Persons —"

  More noise under the lean-to.

  "... All right. All right! But jus' this one time, an' out of a generous heart."

  Several cheers along the plank, and the pie was cut, the first big slice passed over to Baj to be hand-held, running blue juices.

  Then, silence at his first bite through rich crust into sugared sweetness, crowded tart little blueberries crushing to syrup.

  Baj swallowed... and said, "Wonderful."

  Cheers again from the soldiers, pleased at his pleasure — and Sergeant Givens passed four more pieces of pie, then drew more beer.

  "... That could have gone worse," Richard said — as, hands stained blue (and their mouths, even after second jacks drunk) — they walked down Cavalry Street to the Lines. "Could have gone worse, and might have gone worse if some hadn't already heard that Sylvia'd seen us... and sworn us. Camp news is faster than falcons."

  "That old man," Patience said. "Sergeant Givens... As I recall, always busy with some scheme involving Supply. And usually mildly drunk."

  "But delicious pie," Baj said. "Unless, after so long, any pie would be delicious."

  "No. It was very good." Nancy licked her fingers. "Wasn't that good, Errol?"

  A tongue-click and rare smile.

  ... The supply-sergeant's unpleasant corporal was waiting at their place past the Line, standing beside a bulky stack of blankets, woven cloth, hides, furs, muk-boots, mittens, and fur cloaks. "Listen up... While you people and so-forth were seen drinkin' beer — nothin' better to do — all this was finished-up an' delivered. Issue ordered for you by the Ma'am this mornin' — Guards goods, and you're responsible; they're slated out to you. Lose somethin', I'm not fuckin' payin' for it." And he walked away.

  Nancy and Patience knelt to go through the clothing, though Patience said, "I won't need any of this."

  "This is a good issue." Nancy held up immense caribou trousers, huge muk-overboots — their fur-side in — and a wolf-fur parky and mittens to match.

  "Richard .. ." She handed them over.

  "If anything fits," Richard said, "— it will be a first for the Guards."

  ... But everything did fit.

  "The General's command is why," Richard said, posing even larger in furs. "And ordered this morning, just after she rode back to camp."

  "So never a question," Baj said, too warm in a fisher-lined caribou parky, "— that what had been planned would be done, and that we were going with them. A settled thing, apparently."

  "Generals," Patience said, "being chosen after all, for decision."

  Dressed, they were all richly bundled, except for Patience. For her, after distribution to the rest of them — Errol's issue, cut roughly down for him, as complete as the others' — there was left only a pair of fine woolen mittens, a pair of small, furred muk-boots, and a long, hooded coat, thick-wooled and generous enough to wrap Patience double-breasted, before fastening with fat round horn buttons (apparently moved and reattached), and colored as the Wolf-blood soldiers' cloaks were colored, in pretty bands dyed red and black and yellow.

  "That's an Infantry Colonel's change-of-season coat," Richard said, "— but cut shorter for you. Sylvia must have ordered it particularly."

  "Took pity on my blue tatters, I suppose."

  "No," Nancy said, "— she has no pity. Likely, she thought you weren't able to warm yourself as well as once you could. Wanted to be sure you'd be useful on the ice."

  "Then," Patience said, "— the bitch can kiss my ass for being right. I'm not quite as capable as I was." She folded her ragged blue coat, stroked the stained cloth. "The best made by Boston...."

  "No, dear." Richard touched her shoulder. "You are the best made by Boston."

  * * *

  That day, and the hard-traveling days that followed — marching farther east to pass miles of bog, then turning north to the Wall — Baj first tasted the military life, tedious, routined, strenuous and oddly comforting.

  Though these soldiers and their officers were all Persons, often odd, many furred and fanged to at least some extent by tiny bits twisted from animal co-sires, and planted in their mothers — still, they were soldiers, veterans of the trade, and allowed Baj to understand both his fathers better.

  Kipchaks, North Mexicans, or Middle Kingdom's armored infantry — they still were brothers in arms to these Moonriser guardsmen, and Baj could feel something of what Toghrul Khan, of what Sam Monroe had felt in command of such forces. Forces formidable . .. and oddly innocent. Regiments of dangerous children.

  There was a comfort in the surrounding armed and armored troops — though all were Persons, many of whom spoke only poor book-English... while some, perhaps incapable, did not speak at all. Still there was a comfort, a fellow feeling, as if all made a greater One. And the notion came — though of course illogical — that these formations were a family indestructable by any enemy.

  Pedro Darry, in a rare serious moment, had once mentioned to Baj and Newton that men and women had a natural tendency — natural as short-summer flowers bending toward the sun — to bend, themselves, toward the nearest strength of arms, wealth, or wits…. Traveling with the Guard, Baj found that was so, and took some care to maintain a certain easy distance from the pleasures of lean-to fellow feeling, barley beer and pie. Took care to remember that he, Nancy, and his friends, only lived and breathed because a general found them more useful than not.

  The companies, still skirting huge stretches of bog, moved as Richard had moved north through the mountains, at a steady pace — never hurrying, never dawdling (wonderful old copybook word) — the infantry just keeping up with the cavalry mounts' ground-eating amble…. Except for the wheedling pipes of march, everything, from "Out an' Up" to "Down an' Shut It," was ordered through the day on infantry bugle and cavalry trumpet sounding together, then thumped at the finish with a drum. In a service always professionally tense for assault, these rhythms of habit seemed to Baj a soothing medicine — as if guaranteeing a tomorrow the same as today.

  He felt, sometimes — at leisure, usually — when there was a chess game to lose, when he and Nancy... murmuring, murmuring in blankets, rested in each other's arms after making love behind stinking bales, Baj felt at those times as if his fathers stood together, watching, exchanging between them an amused glance of hard-won experience observing... inexperience. At those times, so fleeting, it seemed to him their ghosts were at ease, at home with soldiers (of whatever kind) marching toward battle.

  And with battle in mind, Baj resumed Nancy's lessons — and took lessons from Patience, whose left arm and shoulder grew swiftly stronger. Lessons in bitter winds — first with lean-to bracing-sticks for swords (costing many bruises), and then with their blades (costing minor cuts, and blood),
being cautious to parry with the flat, to save their fine edges.

  These bouts — at dawn or sunset, the light always chancy — drew soldiers as summer blossoms drew summer bummer-bees, and Baj grew used to rude comments as they fought Over-the-ditch, since any weapons brandishing — even for training — was forbidden in the camp.

  Baj, Nancy, and Patience fought to blood and bruising until their swords seemed to leap out of the scabbards at any place of practice, the blades themselves appearing to become more wicked, as if they learned as their owners did.... In those bouts, Patience's skill became more and more evident, despite her white hair — as behind those black eyes, there seemed a second Patience come to fence, young, swift, and merciless.

  Baj often thought of poetry as they marched east, then north to pipes and drums, Tail-end Charlies to a strolling squadron of farting moose, but he wrote none — the days of poetry seemed past — except for a lyric shaped for Nancy, and scribbled on brown regimental roll-paper with a lead-point pencil.

  I've been bitten to madness by a pretty fox, A vixen in silver light, but a girl in gold. Now this fortunate fool finds no fear stands Nor any trouble; they, as if by summer winds Are blown away through beauty's gentle magic. A madman's luck — with yet a richer measure: Her auric eyes to mirror our love's pleasure.

  She'd read it, mouthing the words to herself — something he'd noticed she always did, as if reading needed reminding as it went along. Read it, then raised her elegant head, and looked at him. "I love you, Baj," she'd said, "— but love the man who wrote this, more."

  They had became so close there were no longer quite two of them, and Baj thought not of the rest of his life, but resting his life with hers. And was afraid for her.

  "I want Nancy out of this."

  Patience, sitting cross-legged in her warm new coat of colors — it draped almost ankle-length on her — was finishing a bite of seal-meat jerky with effortful chewing. "Of course you do — even more than I want Nancy, and Richard, and you out of this. Weasel-boy as well."

  "I mean it."

  "So do I," Patience said, and took another bite. When she'd chewed and swallowed, she said, "Do you imagine, Baj, that you're the first to come to me with this?"