The Memories of Milo Morai

by Robert Adams

  “But neither of them broke. Even when the pigs tore out both of Henri’s eyes, drilled through into the quivering nerves of most of his teeth, rammed steel spikes into his fingertips after they already had torn out his nails with pincers. They placed wirings in the most sensitive portions of his body and ran electrical currents through them, burning him severely in many places, they crushed his … his masculinities in a small vise … and almost all of this, they forced Nicole to watch being done.

  “But despite the very worst, Henri never divulged even a hint of his association with la Resistance, nor did Nicole. She was put in prison and there raped repeatedly; he was placed in a prison hospital to recover sufficiently to be sent to a concentration camp in Germany, but before he could be entrained, Paris was liberated.

  “Henri Gallion and Nicole were free, yes, as was our Paris, but free as well to slowly starve, for what can a blind jeweler with maimed hands do? Many were the offers of money and of food and fuel, but Henri Gallion had his pride intact still, and he well knew that most or all of those extending help to him were in only barely better condition themselves, and he would take nothing, rather having Nicole sell his available stock, then family pieces to eke out a precarious existence.

  “Madame Moray, when there was nothing left to sell, Nicole was become frantic, for she never had learned any sort of trade. Then a woman she had met in the prison, one Angelique Laroux, a most accom­plished courtesan, offered to take Nicole on as an apprentice and journeyed north with her, into Ger­many, to answer the gold-edged summons of a high-ranking American officer.

  “But poor Nicole, whose only sexual experiences had been brutal rapes done -upon her in the German prison, her courage failed her at the sticking point and she could not force herself to go through with the arrangement. The man was your husband, Madame Moray, and when he saw her anguish and terror, he gave her his bed and slept himself upon the hard floor.

  “Later, when he had been told by Angelique of the tribulations of Nicole and her father, he arranged to sell certain of his personal possessions to the high-ranking officer, a Brigadier Estilles, I believe, and give the value—hundreds of thousands of francs, it was— to Nicole for the proper care of her father. Nicole’s last sight of that selfless man was of him still asleep in the grayness of the dawn, wrapped in a blanket upon the cold floor.

  “Both Nicole and Angelique have many times sworn before God that as le Capitaine Moray lay there sleeping, there was a dim, glowing radiance about his face and his head, such as the saints owned. And already, one hears, many of those who this day have been touched by him attest that a good, warm tingling of the power of grace has passed from his hand to them, and one of those so attesting is a priest of God, Father Arsenne.

  “Madame, it is very possible that your good husband is truly a saint.”

  Chapter VII

  A little before sundown, Captain Wahrn Mehrdok stalked into the quarters of the priests, saying, “Mosix, chase this passel of parasites out of here or come outside with me. We two need to talk … alone, if you please.”

  The old priest feared Wahrn or any other man who had proved that he could or would stand up to parochial authority, and he was not about to go outside his comfortable home into the darkening countryside with the captain. Grudgingly, therefore, he told the six younger priests and acolytes to leave, but signed them all not to go far.

  When the last of the six had shuffled out, Captain Mehrdok took one of the now-vacated seats at the dining table, used his belt knife to take a thick slice from the veal roast, slapped the slab of meat between two slices of pale-brown wheaten bread and took a big bite before beginning to talk.

  “Cat-killed or not, this is tasty veal, Mosix. Don’t look so damned surprised—we all heard of how you holy-mouthed half that calf carcass out of Djim Dreevuh’s wife. I’d advise you to savor this veal fully, because it may well be the last food you get without working for it—physically working, Mosix, not just running your mouth, you and the rest of your crew.”

  Mosix drew himself up, his eyes shining his wrath. “You lie, Wahrn Mehrdok, for the council would never …”

  The captain swallowed his mouthful of bread and veal, then grinned. “The entire council has, as of last night, read the significant parts of the old journals, the written records of our fathers and theirs, Mosix, and precious few of them are stupid men, you know it and I know it. So don’t expect too very much support to be voted you in council, from now on.

  “And another thing. Once we’re sure that the men who rode into the so-called shrine-city and out again are gone for good, as they seem to be, since there’s no recent traces of them in the ruins, I am going to take a large hunting party into there and root out the she-bear and the two big cats we know of, as well as any other big, dangerous beasts we can find. That much done, we’re going to start doing what we should’ve done donkey’s years back—mining the ruins for metals and anything else still usable—whether you like it or not. Is everything clear now, Mosix? You and your sons and nephews have lost your power, your hold over our people.”

  “Sacrilege!” hissed Mosix, in cold rage.

  “Cowflop,” remarked Wahrn good-naturedly, as he drew his knife and severed another thick chunk of the roasted veal, then dipped himself up a mugful of barley ale from the broached cask. But ail things considered, Wahrn Mehrdok was not a brutal or a callous man, and there was a hint of gentleness in his voice as he spoke again, even a bare hint of sympathy for his old enemy, the priest.

  “I’ve been called many things over the years, Mosix, by you and by others, but nobody has ever been able to truthfully call me an insensitive man. It’s gonna be hard on you and the younguns, at first, I knows that; none of you has ever put in a decent day’s work in all your life, nor your daddy and his, afore you.”

  Mosix stiffened. “I have labored all of my life in the Vineyards of Our Lord … eeek!” He squeaked and would have flinched away, had not his right wrist been suddenly pinioned in the iron grasp of the captain’s horny left hand.

  Laying down his hunk of veal on the scoured boards of the table, Wahrn easily opened Mosix’s clenched fist and rubbed the hand for a moment with his greasy fingers.

  Grinning and shaking his head, the captain re­marked, “Well, what ever kind of work you claim to do or have done, old man, it’s not the kind what the rest of us does, for your palm is ever bit as soft as my good wife’s bottom. But by this time next year, if you live that long, those hands of yours is gonna be near as tough nor mine.”

  With his hand back, Mosix regained most of his poise and his cold hauteur, as well. “No matter what you claim as fact, Wahrn Mehrdok, I well know that the Council of the Guardians never will force any of us holy men to labor like common farmers in the fields. We all will just wait until the next council is convened and then …”

  Wahrn nodded and laughed merrily. Still laughing, he fished a staghorn whistle from out of his pocket and blew a piercing blast on it, then two more shorter ones. “It just so happens, Mosix, that the full council is waiting outside. I had me an idea that you’d want their word on this matter from them, personal, not brought to you by me. Do we convene right here or go over to the Council Chamber?”

  The wave of Guardians burst through the door, bearing two priests before them like flotsam on the crest of a breaker. One of the shaken men made to apologize to the eldest priest for the failure to halt the intrusion, but was silenced after only a syllable or two by an impatient wave of Mosix’s hand.

  When all of the council were packed into the room, standing about the dining table still bedecked with a barely begun meal, Wahrn said, “All right, boys, let’s have the vote again, where Mosix can hear it and know it’s our decision, not just mine alone.

  “Are we all in agreement that Mosix and his ilk have battened off the hard labor of us and our daddies long enough? Are we all in agreement that it’s high time that they went to work themselves, if they want to eat, that is? Further, are we all in agreeme
nt that in the next few years, we means to concentrate on breeding up our herds, hunting wild meat and foraging for wild plants,‘slowly slacking off on real farming?”

  Every Guardian raised his right hand to a chorus of “Yeah,” “Damn right, cap’n,” and the like.

  The first sergeant stated, “It’s what our grand-daddies and theirs should oughta have done long years back, ‘stead of swallerin’ all the swill churned out by Mosix’s kin for so long.”

  “The Lord and His Holy Governor will most as­suredly strike you dead for such sacrilegious blas­phemies, Kahl Rehnee,” Mosix snarled warningly. “Best recant such words now, for the sake of your immortal soul.”

  “That’s your final word on the matter, High Priest?” asked the first sergeant, in mock humility. When the priest stiffly nodded, Kahl laughed and said, “Well, in that case, I’ll just take my chances, if you don’t mind and … even if you do mind. The Lord Jesus we read about in those books you and your daddies kept locked away for so long just don’t sound like the kind as would come down on decent mens just on account of them bucking a passel of greedy, lazy, lying priests from off of their backs, nosirreebob, He don’t. He sounds for to be a all right kinda feller. Too damn bad you and yourn didn’t try to be more like the Lord over the years, Mosix. And as for the ‘Holy Governor,’ you’ve done knowed all along and we’alls just found out, it ain’t been one since the Great Dyings, no kinda one. You lied to us and to our daddies and theirn about that and about a whole heap of other things, too, damn you, and all just so you could live high on the hog without doing no work. You old louse, you, you should oughta just be grateful we didn’t all vote to feed you and your boys to the fuckin’ pigs … if they’d’ve et the kinda shit you’re made out of.”

  He and the others would have said more, but their captain raised a hand and cut it off, saying, “You all got the rest of his life and past it to tell Mosix and his varmints what you thinks of him and them, but time’s a-wasting, right now. The old sun ain’t gonna wait for nothing to come up and start another day, whether you’ve got you enough sleep or not. What we gotta do here and now is parcel out six grown men and big boys who know less about real work nor a four-year-old kid.

  “Here’s how we’ll do it: I, as captain, will get first pick of ‘em. Kahl, as first sergeant, will get second pick. Denee, you and Sam’ll get third and fourth pick, then the rest of you can draw straws or roll dice or whatever to see who gets the last two.”

  “But what about old Mosix, cap’n?” This from someone back in the group of men.

  “We don’t want to kill him, for all he’s done and not done for so long, boys, and to put him into the fields at his age would be killing him as sure as running a sword through him would be, though neither as quick nor as merciful. No, I’ve thought on it and I think I’ve got the bestest slot for our esteemed high priest. He can work with Dreevuh’s boy at the sluice gates until he gets the hang of the job, then the boy can go back to farming work and Mosix can take over the sluices until the creek drops, then he can operate the bucket hoist. That’s the easiest job of real work I can think of, hereabouts.”

  “Who’s gonna feed him and all, cap’n?” asked the first sergeant.

  Wahrn shrugged. “He can keep living here, if he wants to, Kahl, for all I care. This place ain’t more than a mile from the place he’ll be working and he’s got at least one jackass, anyway, if he don’t wanta walk it. Then, too, he can use his evenings to keep the Council Chamber, over yonder, dusted and clean and all … for as long as we keep using it, that is. I’ve thought for some time now that we should hold council meetings in the armory, then we could use the chamber to store grain in.”

  The two younger priests could only stand, stunned speechless by all that was being said. Old Mosix had opened his mouth to speak on several occasions, but, sensing the true, pure hostility pervading the room, had wisely held his peace, while his secure and com­fortable inherited sinecure crumbled about him. He never had been any kind of real leader, rather had he used the authority to which he had been born, that authority come of religious power over the people; that he had used it despotically, harshly, cruelly, had in part occurred because he wanted for courage, himself, and feared and hated those folks possessed of it. And now, when a few strong words, delivered with power, might at least have ameliorated the situation, he had not the heart to voice them.

  The old order changeth, giving way to the new.

  Milo fretted and fumed, paced and worried throughout the day, from the very moment that Little Djahn Staiklee and his mounted hunting party dis­appeared beyond the rolling prairie hillocks until their midafternoon return, laden with a score and a half of big squirrels, a dozen rabbits and three of the rabbit-sized antelope. They brought back, as well, odds and ends of ancient artifacts looted from the ruins of the suburban homes among which they had hunted throughout the day—whatever had taken their indi­vidual fancies: a child’s telescope, an assortment of stainless-steel flatware, a nesting set of pewter cups, a pitted, verdigrised brass eagle, odd bits of chrome and brass and copper, rusty pliers and hammers and other tools, a hand mirror, a copper saucepan with a brass handle, a bronze poker, two rusted spades and so on.

  Upon dumping out the contents of a sack—four decapitated vipers, fifteen gigged but still-living bull­frogs and a brace of big fat carp—Little Djahn said, “Uncle Milo, t’other side of the lake, up north of the ruins … well, in them, actually, in the fringes of them … it’s six, seven boggy ponds, so we didn’t go any farther in, there was all the game we could handle right there. And not just game, either, we got another sack with maybe forty pound of roots and all in it— lotus, water willow, water parsnips, bullrushes, water plantains, cattails and I don’t know whatall. Here­abouts is rich, rich country, Uncle Milo. I don’t think it’s been hunted or foraged proper in a coon’s age, none of it. Wonder why them Dirtmen, down south­east there, didn’t come up and do it?”

  “Little Djahn,” replied Milo, “there are some small groups of Dirtmen scattered about here and there who own singular beliefs. One such that I remember from some years back held that their god wanted them and everyone else to eat only plants and that those who ate the flesh of any beast deserved instant death; we had to exterminate that group, after they caught a party of our hunters and skinned them alive before killing them. Clan Ohkahnuh, I think that was.

  “You see, in the sprawling nation that this land was before the Great Dyings destroyed it, singular phil­osophical and religious cults had been proliferating at an accelerated pace for decades. Many of the adher­ents of these odd groups so detested and feared the general society around them that they deliberately sought out lonely, isolated and all but inaccessible places in which to live, denying access to most out­siders not of their particular bent and discouraging their members from leaving the settlements by various means.

  “So, when the Great Dyings did take place—the plagues which did much of the killing being spread by the breath of infected people—more of these rabidly solitary gaggles of fanatics survived than did more normal people living in towns or cities or easily ac­cessible countryside locations. And, of course, super­stitious as they mostly were, they and their leaders ascribed their fortuitous continuances of life not to the happenstance of their lack of exposure to carriers of pneumonic plagues but to the efficacy of their particular concepts of life or religion, thus recon­firming their fanaticism in that and all succeeding generations of their kind.

  “In those succeeding generations, Little Djahn, a majority of the surviving groups have remained iso­lated, going so far as to kill or enslave any interlopers who refuse to immediately convert on the spot to the beliefs by which the individual group lives. Most of them are Dirtmen, of course, and some few have died out. On two occasions, I have come across settlements filled with corpses—I have always been certain that one of these had expired one late winter of ergot poisoning in stored grain; what killed off the other, no man will ever know.


  “But back to the issue at hand. Until the clans arrive, be very wary while hunting over in that predators’ paradise you found. Those Dirtmen, down south there, may well consider those swamps to be sacred grounds, for some obscure reason, and so would deem you to be not only alien interlopers but blas­phemers, as well. Actually, as I think on the matter, that same supposition could be of a piece with the lack of recent looting or salvaging of the ruined town here, too. With such a thought in mind, it might be well for us if we commence tonight a regular night guard of the camp as well as the cat guard on the herd.”

  “Just us warriors?” inquired Staiklee.

  Milo shook his head. “No, everyone will have to go at it, Little Djahn—a woman or an older child can do the necessary task as well as could one of us. A sentinel is not expected to fight alone or to fight at all, for that matter, only to awake and alert the rest of us, if need arises. I’ll feel a lot better about all this once the clans arrive here to reinforce us.”

  Far to the west-southwest, clouds of dust arose high into the blue skies over and in the broad wake of mounted riders, carts, a few wagons, men, women and children afoot, herds of horses and mules, cattle and sheep and goats, packs of hunting dogs and a few prairiecats. The Kindred clans of Staiklee and Gahdfree were on the march. This time, however, they were not simply moving half-aimlessly to find fresh graze for the herds and game for the stewpots, but had a definite destination in mind and a desire to reach it as soon as possible, so they pushed each day’s march as fast as flesh and blood would bear.

  There was, despite appearances to the contrary, a definite order to the aggregation of people, beasts and conveyances. Far ahead of the van, a few mature prairiecats trotted, all their keen senses at full alert for danger of any sort as well as for large game or any meaningful quantities of smaller, keeping always tele­pathically in touch with van and main body.