IN THE MORNING WILSON prepared a rucksack with dried meat, a loaf of thick bread, an apple, and two water skins. He wrapped the revolver and artifacts in buckskin and put them at the bottom of the sack.
Wool cap pulled over his ears, he walked through a brisk, pre-dawn mist. The northern corral was at the other end of the valley. It was close enough to the village that wolves avoided it but far enough that someone had to stay there during the summer.
A barn and the wooden fence of a corral emerged from the fog, filled with a herd of sheep and goats. A brown nanny with a white star on her forehead bleated at Wilson. On the near side of the fence, a teenage boy in thick clothing rubbed a black and white collie around the neck.
“Morning, Alfie,” said Wilson.
The boy looked up. “Morning, sir. Wait––I didn’t know you had to watch the sheep. Where’s Robb?”
“I’m working for him today. It’s all right, Alfie, I stay here sometimes––it gives me a chance to think. Is everything tip-top?”
“I guess. The bow is in there.” Alfie pointed to a small cabin on the other side of the corral. “I brought extra blankets. You can use ‘em.”
“Great.”
“Bye!” Alfie grabbed a leather bag at his feet and ran into the mist. The dog barked and sped after him.
The fog blackened the gray wood of the cabin with beads of dark moisture. A cast-iron bell and ringer were fastened to the wall next to the door.
Wilson walked inside and took a crossbow and packet of bolts. At the corral he lifted a frayed loop of rope and dragged the gate open. A mottled collection of independent thinkers, the goats wandered out first while the sheep huddled inside the fence.
Wilson put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The black and white dog came speeding up the path and trotted to the other end of the corral.
“Let’s go, Blackie! Let’s go! Heya! Heya!”
The dog barked at the sheep and helped Wilson push and prod them up the mountain. The walk was long and the mist dampened his face and clothes. As he followed Blackie and the herd up the rocky slopes, the gloomy white shroud in the air slowly thinned to a blue sky.
By the time he found the high meadow the sun was a finger’s width above Old Man but the valley below still a lake of fog. Wilson loaded his crossbow and set it nearby then sat down with his back to a yellow aspen. The sheep wandered through the pasture and Blackie lay in the sun, tongue lolling and eyes half-shut. Wilson tried to follow her example.
But he couldn’t sleep––he kept thinking about Mina. She’d been thrown into his lap just like his mother had said and he’d rejected her. He’d been trained to use facts to make decisions, not to eliminate a choice because it felt wrong. He thought about Badger the last time he’d seen her. The warm hand he’d bandaged, the half-kiss and bloody lip they shared, the magnificent way her eyes changed when they focused on something.
Wilson shifted position. Except she never looked at him that way. Why would care about a simpleton like him? He had years of training left, while the others she could choose from were basically adults. Whatever the situation between them, he had to tell her about the database and the others who’d died. But how?
He woke with the sun overhead and the herd grazing a short distance away. Blackie rested, head on her paws and blinking lazily. Wilson tossed her some meat. After a meal of bread and cheese he inspected the crossbow. He carefully released the catch then cleaned and checked the reload lever, fittings, and bowstring. He reloaded and fitted the bolt back into its track.
What would she think when he told her? What would she say? Blackie didn’t move her head but watched carefully as Wilson stood and walked a circle around the herd.
He lay on the grass and watched dark clouds creep across the sky. Trust me. Her hand in his. I do. Wilson stood and practiced the calming trick for a quarter-hour and felt better.
Out of boredom he tried something different. He faced the sun, closed his eyes, and breathed out. He imagined the crackle of a huge fire and created four new verses:
Breath made of flame
Breath made of spark
Breath made of steam
Speed my heart
His left arm prickled with ice-chills but the rest of his body burned furiously hot. A dull roar vibrated in his head and beads of sweat flashed from his skin. The sweat ran into his eyes and down his back. Blackie stared at him, her jaws open and tongue lolling. Wilson stopped concentrating and the dog trotted over.
“That’s not very useful, is it girl?” He hugged her around the neck. “Unless bears hate the taste of man-sweat.”
Wilson removed his coat and undershirt and laid them in the sun. He relaxed in the shade until some of his energy came back then used a flat stone to sharpen his hunting knife and the small throwing blade.
He hadn’t practiced with the knives for a few days so he ambled across the meadow to a wide-barreled tree. On a flat area at chest height he scratched a crude target and stepped back ten paces. Overhand with the small knife––hit. Underhand––hit. Overhand––hit. After a few minutes, Wilson sheathed it and pulled out the longer hunting knife. Overhand––miss. Underhand––miss. He practiced until the blade hit the target every time.
Blackie barked and sped away through the grass. She stopped halfway through the meadow and listened, ears up. Wilson watched the tree line across the sloping meadow and sniffed the breeze. He moved his crossbow and pack closer to the practice tree and returned to the target. This time he backed up twenty paces. Hunting blade overhand––miss. Hunting blade underhand––miss.
A voice came from behind him. “Step into it!”
Wilson spun around. “Kira!”
Badger walked toward him, trying not to smile. Her black hair split into two long braids and bounced on the shoulders of her tanned leather jacket. Dried, caramel-colored mud covered her trousers from the waist down.
Blackie wagged her tail and jumped at her, and Badger rubbed the dog’s neck.
“Why did you call me that?”
Wilson shifted his feet. “Um ….“
“It’s funny,” said Badger, “Most people don’t remember that name. But you can use it.”
“Whew!” Wilson laughed and pretended to plunge a knife into his chest. Badger giggled and made him feel a few feet taller.
“Why did you walk all the way up here?”
“To talk to you, silly boy.”
“What?”
“The last time I saw you, didn’t you have something to tell me?” She walked over to his hunting knife and snatched it from the ground. “Well?” She backed up twenty paces and threw overhand at the tree. The knife stuck in the center of the target.
“Ah ….”
“I’ve been six days off-map with a bum hand. I come back, walk up a mountain, and all you can say is ‘ah’?” She tugged at the knife and walked back to Wilson.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he said.
Badger threw the knife underhand into the target.
“Safely, that is. Back safely,” said Wilson.
“What do you care about my safety?”
“Well, I care about the safety and health of all–”
“Stop jerking my chain.”
Badger shook her head and stared at him, a smile at the corners of her mouth.
Wilson cleared his throat. “How’s … uh … how’s the hand? I don’t see a bandage.”
“It’s okay, just sore.” She moved her fingers. “I lost the bandage in a god-forsaken swamp.”
“Let me see.”
Wilson held her hand and turned it with his fingers. Her skin was soft, apart from the calloused palm.
“Scabbed over nicely,” he said. He sniffed the red line of the wound.
“What are you doing?”
“Smelling for infection.”
“You’re a strange cat, Wilson.” Badger poked him in the chest and slid a hand behind his neck. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“This,” he s
aid, and they kissed.
WILSON LOST TRACK OF time until a drop of rain splashed his cheek. He started to get up for his jacket but Badger held him tight.
“Is that all you have to say?” she asked.
“No, there’s more.”
They sheltered from the storm under the wide spruce trees like a pair of lonely goats. When the thunder passed and the rain faded to a soft spray they guided the animals down the mountain. Wilson kept his arm around Badger’s waist and felt the gentle rhythm in each of her steps.
“Why did the patrol take so long?”
Badger sighed. “This group of tribals kept wandering back and forth like they were looking for something. Too close to ignore and too many to fight.”
“Hunters?”
“Too much noise. They wouldn’t have caught a dead goat tied to a tree.”
“Raiders?”
“Maybe. I couldn’t get close enough to find out.”
At the dark edge of twilight they brought the herd to the corral. Wilson locked the gate and gave Blackie a large piece of dried meat. He walked with Badger hand-in-hand to the small cabin. Inside were two narrow bunks and a large pile of furs.
“You don’t have to stay,” said Wilson, holding her around the waist. “You might be missed.”
“Someone right here will miss me,” she said.
The bunks were hard and the furs musty, but it didn’t matter. Together they kept warm and forgot that anything else had ever existed.
Later, curled together under the blankets, Wilson played with one of her braids that had started come loose.
“I feel like a hooked fish,” he said. “And you’re on the other end of the line.”
Badger giggled. “I won’t throw you back yet.”
She left the bunk and felt through a pile of clothes.
“Where are you going?”
“You’re right, Will––I can’t stay here. Simpson will come looking for me.”
“Well, they have to find out sometime.”
“Not tonight and not like this.”
Wilson stayed under the furs and stared at the antlers that hung from the roof beams.
“There’s something I didn’t tell you.”
She jumped on top of him playfully. “What?”
“It’s about you.”
“I’m the greatest, you told me six times already.”
Wilson shook his head. “It’s about your collapse. The sickness.”
“Tell me.”
“Listen, it’s not definite. Like you said, what do the stupid priests know anyway? Maybe there’s another set of records I haven’t found yet–”
She opened her eyes wide. “WHAT is not definite?”
Wilson sighed and rubbed his cheeks.
“Your condition … it’s fatal. Everyone in your name-line had it, including the founder. It started at different ages, but all of them had it. And … all of them died from it.”
“You’re joking!” She left the bed and stared at him. “Don’t tell me a stupid thing like that. I feel fine. It can’t be that bad!”
“I wouldn’t tell you unless I thought it was true.”
“How long?”
“A month. Six weeks at the most.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
The look in her eyes made Wilson wish he had more than a blanket for protection.
“You were on patrol!”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said. “Before.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
Badger pulled on her trousers, moccasins, and jacket.
“I thought you were different,” she said.
“Kira, it’s not what you think!”
She turned the latch and a draft blew into the room.
“No. You’re just like the rest of them.”
FOUR
The next two weeks were hell for him.
Badger avoided him outside, at mealtimes, and didn’t attend services. Wilson pushed carefully-worded letters under her door but found them torn and scattered across the corridor later. The hunters simply avoided his questions. He didn’t even know if she was in the valley or not. He began to see things, to mistake other dark-haired girls for her. He walked the underground corridors at night until the lack of sleep ground his mind into a thoughtless oblivion. When Reed wasn’t watching, he searched for her on the tracking screens.
For a distraction he scanned the strange objects from the old times with medical equipment. They were smooth with no seams or visible openings. Readings from the inside showed many complex structures, but none of the sensors gave him a single data point. Wilson gave up trying to get any information from them directly.
One day he returned from the midday meal and saw Father Reed in the medical room with a very pregnant middle-aged woman. Wilson stepped inside to help Reed put away the display and medical connectors.
“––be fine, Brownie,” said Reed. “How are the boys?”
The woman laughed. “You know as well as I do. I spend half the time chasing them around and the other half cleaning up the mess.”
“Finally, my apprentice is here,” said Reed. “Brownie came in for a minor pain but everything is normal.”
“Good evening, Citizen Allen,” said Wilson.
She chuckled. “Don’t be so formal.”
“Come back for a check-up in a few days,” said Father Reed. “Yes, I see that look, and of course you’ve done this before. Think of it as a social call.”
He helped the pregnant woman slide off the table. Wilson guided her through the doors of the entrance tunnel and returned to the treatment room.
“I have a question, Father.”
He handed over the bundle of objects. Reed carefully unwrapped the cloth.
“Where did you find these?”
“In the tunnels, while fixing the hot water.”
“That was weeks ago!”
“I … um … I forgot.”
Reed sighed. “Never mind. These are parts of the body––gifts from the founders if you prefer––given to us during the name-giving ceremony.”
“These things are under the scars?”
“Of course! Do you need me to draw you a picture?” Reed paused. “I take it there were human bones nearby.”
Wilson nodded.
“Then we’ll need to visit the Tombs immediately.”
“With no body? These are just old scraps,” said Wilson.
“It’s more important to bury these ‘scraps’ than any dead flesh and bones.” Reed held up the yellowed cylinder. “The body is born from dust and unto dust it returns. These are sacred objects, vessels for the soul, and through them we transcend the dust of mortal life. This singular reason is why the dead pass into the Tombs.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Thank founder you’re a little caterpillar and still have time to learn, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now tell me what’s wrong with you, apprentice.”
“Sir?”
“You’ve been moping about for weeks, and today I’ve been told you’re still bothering the hunters about Airman Chen.”
“Well, I–”
“I’ll grant she’s been the unfortunate center of attention lately but there’s no reason to be so distracted from your studies.”
Wilson’s ears burned. “I’m just worried about her. If I could find–”
“Your concern is noted but misplaced. The matter is under control.”
“What about a cure for her sickness?”
“It’s being handled, Ensign.”
“But how? What’s the plan for treatment?”
Reed carefully placed the artifacts onto the cloth and bundled them up. “Nothing for you to worry about.”
“I don’t believe it,” said Wilson.
“What was that?”
“I don’t believe it!”
Reed stared. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Me? What’s wrong w
ith you? Don’t tell me you’re working on it, because that’s not true. You’re doing nothing because you know she’s going to die!”
He stormed out of the room and the quarters.
THAT NIGHT HE SLEPT in the cabin at the corral. Robb was happy to leave and Wilson wanted to be alone. Not that he found it easy to sleep. He had the dream again. But instead of his father, he chased Badger through a field of sunflowers. She was always out of reach and gone when he woke up.
Alfie took over in the morning and Wilson walked to the village slowly, like a dead leaf nudged by the breeze. He ate breakfast at Barracks and loitered until a few villagers came in. He bundled up a bowl of honey-sweetened porridge and a large cup of spruce tea, and took them to the rectory.
Father Reed opened his door and looked as if he had just woken up. “Yes?”
“Breakfast as usual, sir.”
“How can I help you?”
Wilson struggled to hide his true feelings. “I’m sorry about yesterday, sir.”
Reed nodded. “Apology accepted. Now, are you ready to forget that distraction of yours and help me with some real work?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a pile of dried herbs in the storage room.”
Wilson sorted the medicines into paper envelopes and placed them in cabinets. When he finished, Reed was in the library.
“Sir, may I ask a question?”
Reed looked up from a yellowed medical tome. “Yes?”
“Did you find the errors in the locator and the weather sensors?”
“What errors?”
“From three weeks ago. Lewis was attacked, then we missed the forecast–”
“Oh that. It wasn’t anything. It took me a week to find the logs for that specific sensor. The founders had many odd categories and naming conventions. The sensor and one of the locators just had few days of glitches, from what I could understand. Hasn’t happened since.”
“That’s good, sir.”
“Speaking of errors, Ensign––how did you know the details of Airman Chen’s condition?”
Wilson bit his lower lip. “I used your database.”
“I’m glad that won’t happen again.”
“No, sir, it won’t.”
HE’D PROMISED ROBB and all the other boys vast piles of treasure if they saw Badger or discovered when she was coming back. As boys do, they made this into a grand adventure complete with code words and wooden knives. Wilson didn’t care what they did, he just wanted to see her.
A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) Page 6
