by Ike Hamill
When I lift my head a little more, she waves. She’s wearing green. There’s a gun strapped to her back. She could have shot a dozen times by now, but still she waves. She turns and beckons me to follow. My chances of living are pretty slim. I’m not sure that I have anything to lose. If I crawl, I think I can make it most of the way to the woods.
They must see me moving. I flatten my body and pull myself along the ground. It’s excruciating work.
The woman is deeper in the woods, but I still see her waving me on. I reach the end of the trunk I’ve been using for protection. Now I’ve got at least twenty paces of open space between me and the woods. With no cover, I’ll never make it. These guys aren’t exactly expert marksmen. They’ve had a dozen chances to hit me and I’m not even wounded, but even a random shot might tag me in the wide-open space I’m looking at.
The woman keeps waving.
I shake my head and point in the direction of the shooters.
She nods. At least I think she’s nodding. She’s far enough away that I can’t exactly see her perfectly. If this is a trap, it has worked. I’m out of options and I’m putting my trust in this woman. Again, if she wanted to shoot me, she could have done so before she even bothered to signal. So, if it is a trap, it still might be better than being shot.
She puts up both hands and motions with both of her palms towards the ground. “Stay down,” she says, with her hands. Then she waves me forward again.
What the hell. Daylight won’t last much longer anyway.
I stay low and I run.
Shots erupt from the woods, but not from the side I expect. These aren’t the deliberate, spaced shots of a sniper. This is rapid, automatic fire. If I had to guess, I would say this is suppressive fire, meant to drive the snipers to cover so they can’t get a clean shot at me. I hear a shot buzz over my head and I glance to the right and see a line of people hiding behind trees and shooting. They’re covering me.
The woman is waving frantically.
I don’t stand straight until I reach her.
“Follow close,” she says, “and run fast.”
She plunges into the woods and I’m right on her heels. She weaves between the trees at an unbelievable speed. Either she’s lucky, or she has an uncanny knowledge of this forest, because she ducks around branches and behind boulders with complete disregard for what may be on the other side. I have to abandon caution to keep up.
She doesn’t tire.
It has been a long day for me and I’m panting when she gets to the bottom of the hill. She floats uphill. Her toes lightly touch roots and rocks and her feet seem to hover above moss and ferns. I couldn’t move that delicately at any speed. I charge up the hill behind her, trampling and stomping.
“This way,” she says, pointing.
She starts down the hill and leaps from a ledge of rock, landing on a slippery-looking fallen log. She doesn’t slow. I stop at the edge and look down. It’s got to be at least six feet down. I turn and lower myself down to the dirt below.
When I spin back around, she’s gone.
She has run away without a trace.
I look back, get a sense of the direction we were headed and then run downhill. My feet crunch in the leaves, but I’m moving fast and nobody is shooting at me. Out here in the forest, I shouldn’t have any allies. Who are these people?
I keep running, drawing deep draughts of cool forest air as I run. My body feels good as I stretch out my strides. Another flash of light stops me in my tracks.
It’s blue.
I look up and see a man. He’s wearing green and brown, like a movie-version of Robin Hood and he’s waving me to the left. What the hell, it worked out well last time. I run in his direction.
This guy is not as light on his feet as the woman, but every few steps he makes an incredible leap. I can imagine that tracking him would be nearly impossible. You’d be following his tracks for a couple of paces and then you would have to fan out and hunt for the next footprint. Each leap heads off in a random direction.
We’re running along the side of the hill. Keeping up with this guy is easier than with the woman. Somewhere behind us, we’ve left the wind-damaged forest and the snipers. My leader leaps across a creek and I splash through it. I jump as far as I can, but I only make it halfway across. He speeds up. He’s pulling away from me as he ducks under low-slung branches. I just don’t have his speed.
“Hey,” I call out, when I can spare a breath.
He doesn’t slow or turn to find out what I want.
He’s gone.
“Damn it,” I say between gasps. I stop and bend over to catch my breath. I’m not at all surprised when a green light draws my eye. Flash-flash-flash. A boy is signaling me from the top of a ledge. Flash-flash-flash.
If they want me to recover faster, they should stop and explain why. I hold up a single finger to the boy—not the rude finger—and take a few more deep breaths to settle my pulse.
Flash-flash-flash.
“Okay,” I say.
I jog to the ledge and jump up on top.
The boy’s feet are so fast that I can’t even see them work. I run at a comfortable pace and the boy is soon pulling away. He slows and lets me catch up. Knowing that he’s making a concession for me, I push myself a bit harder and we move. I get the feeling he’s dialed back to around seventy-five percent to accommodate me. The boy darts and weaves. I do my best.
He stops.
There’s a group here—two people on horseback and a woman holding the reins of a riderless horse.
“Get on,” she says.
The man and woman riding are both carrying sidearms. We’re not running from those snipers anymore, we’re running towards something, and I’m curious what it is.
I’ve never ridden a horse before. I took a mule-trip to the bottom of the Grand Canyon once, but this looks like it will be different. On the back of the mule, I could almost put my feet on the ground. This horse’s back is taller than me. When she sees my hesitation, the woman holding the reins interlaces her fingers and offers me a boost.
I shake my head. I grab the saddle in both hands and lift my foot to the absurdly high stirrup. I have to use one of my hands to set my foot in the stirrup and the horse takes a half step. I hop on my right leg a couple of times and then jump and pull. The saddle shifts under my grip and, for a second, I think it’s going to slip down the side of the horse. I swing my leg over and have to reach down to settle my right foot.
This is going to be hell.
The man takes the lead and kicks his horse into a run. My horse follows. I have a death-grip on the reins, but I move my hands down so I can hold the saddle as well. I’m going to bounce off. Each time the horse’s feet spring off the ground it tosses me in the air and I land hard when its feet hit again. I can’t hold on much longer. The woman rides up next to me.
“Slouch,” she yells.
“What?”
“SLOUCH!”
My muscles are tensed for the next impact. Relaxing them seems like the worst possible idea. What the hell, I’m going to fall off anyway. I let my lower back curve and when the horse hits the ground my spine acts like a shock absorber. Suddenly, it feels like I might be able to stay on. I even smile slightly as I get into the rhythm of the horse’s stride. I imagine that from the side I probably look like the letter S, but we’re making good time.
My fellow riders are sitting tall and pretty in their saddles, maybe even leaning forward a bit.
Even with my sloppy new technique, I don’t think I’m going to last long. All the bouncing and flopping is just too unfamiliar. My horse launches off a ledge, stretching out its front legs, and we float through the sky. The forest floor comes up to meet us and its legs beat a quick patter on the ground below.
“Lean forward,” the woman yells. The nose of her horse is up near my thigh.
I follow instructions and the result is painful. The bouncing horse pounds the saddle into my guts. I understand the point as tree li
mbs fly overhead.
The horses pick up speed. I don’t even want to watch. I focus on the bobbing mane in front of me as the horses sprint under the low branches. With one mistake, one errant limb, I’ll know what it’s like to swallow my face.
The horse turns and I see the ground below morph into hard-packed dirt. We’re on a road. My horse pulls up even with the one in the lead and the third horse pulls up next to us. The three animals synchronize as we run down the dirt road.
“How much longer?” I yell to the woman.
“Six and a half grids,” she says.
Figures.
I don’t know how far a grid is, but it sounds far.
The male rider pulls ahead. He’s about three or four lengths ahead, kicking up dust in my face again, when he takes off to the left. To my horror, he leaves the road for the forest and my horse follows. We slow down once in the thick brush, and my horse seems to take more care to pick a path. You might think that going slower would be easier. You’d be wrong. The horse bounces more at this medium speed.
I don’t know how long we have left to travel, and I’m losing my sense of how long we’ve been bouncing along like this. The horse stops and I open my eyes. The riders pull their horses up on either side of me and they dismount. The woman pulls the reins from my hands.
We’re at a dark red barn in the shadow of giant arching trees. The man waves me down and I slide between the horses to a springy bed of short grass. This place reminds me of Vermont, but in a good way. I step out from between the horses, cautious not to stand behind them.
“What is this place?” I ask the guy.
He doesn’t reply. He takes the reins of the three horses and starts to walk to the corner of the barn. I start to follow at a safe distance, but the woman grabs my arm.
“We’re going this way,” she says.
“Why?”
“For the meeting.”
She doesn’t go in the big barn doors. Instead, she leads me around the side. A little shed juts out of the side of the barn and stone steps lead down and around. This side has shingle siding instead of clapboards, and the color is natural weathered wood instead of dark red. I smell cows. She takes me to a door that creaks open. A man’s voice filters down from above. I can’t make out what he’s saying.
We climb worn steps to another door that opens to the back of a crowd. They’re standing in the big open space of the barn, looking up at a gray-haired man who’s standing on a platform at the end. He’s right in the middle of a speech.
“…put them back on their heels and now they have another distraction? We won’t get a better opportunity.”
A much younger man, with big muscles pushing at the seams of his flannel shirt, steps to the gray-haired man and pats him on the back. The older man hands the younger a big stick, which I’m guessing gives the younger man permission to speak.
“Thank you, Frère Sobaka,” the muscle man says. He could be the brother of the rider who brought me here. They look very similar. I glance at the woman who led me in. Is she his sister?
“Does anyone else have an opinion before we take our vote?” the muscle man asks.
The woman who is helped to the platform is ancient. Her curly hair is white and wispy, like albino cotton candy. Hands guide her by the elbows as she shuffles across the platform to take the stick from the muscle man. The crowd falls silent, like everyone is holding their breath to hear the delicate voice of the tiny woman.
We’re next to a stout pillar and under a hay loft or something, so it’s hard to get a sense of the size of the group. I can see fifty or sixty people, but there could be more tucked away to the side. The wood above us creaks and I wonder if there might be more people standing up there.
Her voice is strong. “I was a teenager when this war started,” she says. “My father was accused of great crimes and then he was assassinated by a mob of your people. They tied his legs to an oak, tied his arms to his own horse, and then whipped the beast until it tore him in two.”
Murmurs from the group become grumbles as she makes this claim. The muscle man comes to her side and whispers something in her ear. “What?” she asks him, and he whispers again.
When she starts speaking again, her voice has lost some of its volume.
“I speak of the past just so we won’t forget what it has to teach us. We can make demons of mortals. We can lay blame at the feet of our friends and neighbors. We can, but we shouldn’t. They’ve poisoned our people, these Providentials. We rely on them for our prosperity? That’s nonsense. They bring us war, and sacrifice, and death. How many of your sons and daughters have been conscripted into this useless battle?”
She begins to cough. The group doesn’t fidget.
“Let them smash against each other until their pieces no longer stir. But let us not raise another finger to help them. Without us to fight, they can sacrifice themselves and we will no longer be held hostage by their war.” A small percentage of the people applaud as she’s helped from the stage. Many people clear their throats.
Muscle man retrieves his stick and returns to center stage.
“Any more opinions, or information? Has my sister returned, by any chance?”
“Vasil!” the woman who led me in calls. She raises one hand to wave and uses her other to grip my arm again. The group parts as she leads me from the back to the platform. When we step up and turn around, I realize the size of the group. They’re packed into every space. Men and women not only crowd the floor, but stand on every level of the giant barn. There’s even a window on the end with faces looking in. They must be standing out on a roof.
Vasil—the muscle man—approaches me and puts a hand on my shoulder. Up close, he’s loud.
“This man,” he booms. He turns to me and says, “Malcolm.” I nod. Does everyone know my name?
“This man, Malcolm, was brought here by the wandering Providential. He knows about their plans. Tell us what you know.”
He hands me the stick.
“I’m,” I start. “Um. I’m not sure what you want me to say?”
A rumble of discontent starts at the front of the group and washes to the back. I take a small step back. I can picture the ancestors of these people tearing a man in half with a horse. I really can. They’re an angry, angry group.
“Just tell us what’s happened since you got here,” Vasil says in my ear.
“When I got here,” I say. I don’t think anyone can hear me over their own discontent. I start again, nearly shouting. “When I got here, the logicals tried to convince me that I had made a deal with them.” For a second, I think I should explain “logicals,” but I’m sure they will understand from the context. “I convinced them to let me leave their camp.”
The group is quiet now, so I lower my voice. I want to draw them in, if I can.
“Bud, um… Constantine, sought out the old man in the shack? The one with his eyes gouged out?” I see some nods, so I continue. “That old man told Constantine about the origin of your war.”
I’ve got a decision to make here. I didn’t expect to be talking before a group of angry villagers, and I’m not sure how to best play the situation to my advantage. On one hand, I still owe allegiance to Bud, but perhaps a large part of that feeling is because I want to prove to him that I haven’t betrayed him. On the other hand, it would be great to get out of this damned village alive.
“When Constantine left, he was just a child and didn’t know about Providentials or what any of that meant. He was just an orphaned boy, fighting for his life.”
I hear murmurs.
“He was thrown in the river and found his way into the world to live his life.”
The grumbling in the crowd is getting louder and I’m raising my voice to compensate.
“He had amnesia, and didn’t remember anything about his childhood,” I shout. It’s no use. I’ve lost them.
Vasil comes over to me and grabs the stick. I don’t let go. We’re both holding the stick when he speaks in
my ear.
“We don’t care about your posturing. You can’t paint a sympathetic picture of Constantine for us. We only want to hear the facts about the last few days.”
“Oh,” I say. Vasil lets go and I raise the stick to regain command of the audience.
“We came through the bamboo and fought the rats and the lion,” I say. The crowd falls silent. “I was badly envenomated from the rats and Bud got me to the road.” This naked narrative is holding their attention. “We got a ride on a cart from a guy with a funny hat. He took us to the Yarrow Road?”
A guy from the floor interrupts me. “It may look funny, but it keeps the bugs out of my ears.” It’s the guy from the cart and his statement brings a hearty laugh from the group.
“Thank you, sir,” I say. Another small laugh breaks out. “When we left the cart, we found a blockade. Bud was trying to get me into town for medical help. I was going to die without help. Some people took us in—captured us, I guess you could say—and they healed me. They took me aside. They tried to convince me that I had made a deal to help them with Bud…Constantine.”
Another bit of whispering breaks out in the group. I sigh. The woman directly in front of me turns to her neighbor and whispers something. I don’t get all of it, but I swear she says something like, “He really doesn’t remember.”
I shake my head and start speaking again. I need to power through this interruption.
“So that’s when I talked the logicals into letting us go. I told them that if I could get Constantine back to the woods, I could talk him into returning his spirit. They think that with his spirit, they can defeat the creatives. Then we went to the blind man, heard our fortunes, got some advice, and left.”
They’re still quiet.
“We walked through the woods, found the creatives, and split up. Constantine is supposed to be gathering up the logicals, and I’m supposed to be gathering the creatives. We were going to get them together for one battle to end everything. The goal is for them to wipe each other out. Bud figured it was the only way to get them to stop fighting.”
