At mid-day the western scout ran up, out of breath.
“They come,” he said. “One first, then the rest.”
Not more than ten minutes later a figure loped down the trail. He wore a yellow, fringed buckskin jacket. His head was shaved like many of the Lagos, leaving only the bristling wheat-sheaf of a topknot. On his cheeks were tattooed the thorn-rings of the Circle. A long firearm rested on his shoulder.
The scout saw the deer’s body and froze. He looked up and down the ravine. A few minutes later a line of tribals filed down the path. Six wore buckskin like the scout and pulled a line of ragged prisoners, each tied by the hands to a guide rope.
Two Westcreeks approached the scout. After a short discussion, they walked to the “deer” and stood over it. The line of slaves sat on the path, and the four guards leaned against the dirt sides of the ravine.
Wilson aimed his crossbow at a guard away from the rest. He exhaled and pulled the trigger release. The bolt whisked through the air and struck deep in the guard’s chest. He stumbled and fell backwards into the dirt.
The Westcreeks swiveled around and reached for their rifles. Wilson dropped his crossbow and aimed his pistol at the scout near the deer. The pistol roared and the tribal crumpled with a hole in his chest. Deafening cracks and smoke filled the ravine as the rest of the raiders fired. Wilson emptied his pistol and hit three more Creeks.
The firing trickled to a stop. All of the Westcreek guards lay still and unnatural on the ground, like dolls dropped by a child. Wilson watched as the raiders slid down the steep sides of the ravine with a wild abandon. They stabbed the bodies of the Westcreeks and gleefully ripped off trophies.
Wilson climbed down through the dirt and roots to the line of prisoners.
“Come with us and live,” he said in the dialect. “If you run or make a sound, these men will leave your bodies for the wolves.”
One of the slaves had been hit in the leg. Wilson cut him free and left him to fate. He and the raiders began a desperate run south with the rest of the slaves. The tribals ran up and down ridges with a speed that made the night before seem like a stroll in the garden. A few times one of the faster Lagos left to create a false trail, then doubled back.
During a short break Wilson reloaded his pistol. He noticed a tanned girl with olive-shaped eyes watching him. Sweat soaked through patches of dirt on her white dress. Pieces of leaves stuck from her chestnut-colored braids and her knees were skinned red, probably from a tumble.
“Why do you wear clothes from my spirit-home?” she asked him.
Wilson realized he still wore the brown jacket and black hat. Many of the other raiders had already dropped theirs on the trail.
He wriggled out of the jacket and handed it to the girl. “What village is that?”
“It is David.”
Wilson rubbed his face and sighed. There was no reason for him to care. He had no real connection to Mina’s village––it was simply where he expected to find Badger.
Flora’s trick was a low priority as they continued the hard run through the afternoon. During breaks Wilson shared his food with the prisoners.
He could smell the lake before they reached it. Boys from the village ran toward them in the cool evening, screeching like wild animals. The raiders entered the palisade gate and stopped in the central plaza. Flora greeted each of the men with a tender palm to the cheek and a cup of rosemary tea.
“Congratulations on your success!” said Flora.
Wilson shrugged. “Now can I leave?”
“But you’ve just come back. How about a rest?”
His legs twitched with tiny spasms and his feet burned. “I’m fine. I need to leave.”
“If you’re fine now, tomorrow morning you’ll feel even better,” said Flora.
“Right,” said Wilson.
He lay under the sheepskin and slept uneasily. Before sunrise a villager knocked. Wilson broke his fast with a meal of venison and rice then gathered his gear. He felt much better. Any sleep was good for the healing process.
Flora waited downstairs with two young men and the girl with chestnut-colored hair from David. She carried a bag of corn cakes and a water skin.
“Didn’t you have a scratch on that cheek?” asked Flora. “It’s gone now.”
Wilson sniffed. “So what?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Flora gestured to the two men. “My sons will take you past the fields,” said Flora. “Also, since this girl is from David I give her life to you.”
Wilson nodded grimly.
The girl clapped her hands together and bowed to Flora. “Thank you, Flora!”
“I’m an evil old woman and don’t need your thanks. But there will come a time in your life when you can help someone or hurt them. Just help them.”
EIGHT
Flora’s two sons led Wilson and the tribal girl east through dry fields of corn. At a small concrete pillar the tall boys waved farewell and turned back. Wilson and the girl ran as fast as they could until Lagos was out of sight.
The road had broken to fragments and weeds covered it like mange. On either side the land was flat and open with few trees. To the south lay the humps of forested hills. A range of granite mountains glowered from the east.
The day was crisp and bright. Grasshoppers buzzed away as Wilson and the girl brushed by the stalks of tall weeds. A brown hare stood and watched the pair from the corner of his eye then bounced away.
Wilson cleared his throat. “What’s your name?”
“I knew it! You speak Anglan. Where are you from?”
“The western mountains.”
Without warning the girl grabbed Wilson’s arm and pointed. “Wolf!”
Wilson laughed. “That’s not a wolf, it’s a dog. Anyway, it won’t hurt you.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve given it food.” He whistled at the animal. “It hasn’t killed me even once.”
“How could it–”
“That’s a joke.”
The dog came a few steps closer. Wilson pulled a strip of meat from his pack and dropped it in plain sight. He continued walking east along the broken trail and the girl ran after him.
She touched the fringe of his jacket with her fingertips.
“Are you a god?”
Wilson snorted. “What kind of question is that? If I were a god, why would I walk and not fly? Why would I let savages crack me on the head? There’s only one god and he’s certainly not like me. He doesn’t wander the earth like a lost duckling.”
“Of course there’s the one god, but there are also gods like you.”
“You still haven’t told me your name. If I’m a god, wouldn’t I already know it?”
“My name’s Kaya.”
“That’s it? I thought tribal names were longer.”
She blushed and slapped him on the arm. “We’ve just met. You should know I can’t tell you that!”
“I’m sorry. Now Kaya, we’ve got a full day of travel ahead of us, so tell me about these gods. If I’m one of them I’d better start learning.”
The girl pulled a long blade of grass. “Teacher has many stories. The houses and roads are theirs.” She pointed with her grass blade at a rusted, overgrown heap. “They flew from place to place in those metal boxes. The gods flattened mountains and dug every tunnel and lake. What their minds wished, they created. Every part of the land was owned by the gods, and the wolf and the bear hid in caves.”
“Go on,” said Wilson. “Where did they go?”
“They created many good things and controlled everything they could see, but became bored. Together, the gods made a jar to hold all the evils of life and hid this under a mountain far to the west. Only a woman could touch it. A young girl called Adith was tricked into opening it by Lute, a man who wanted to control the power of this jar. But instead the evils broke loose and spread upon the earth. It killed the gods and destroyed their homes.”
“If it killed them where did you come from?”
“Adith of course. She and Lute survived and had many children.”
“I still don’t understand why you think I’m a god.”
“Don’t be silly. You said you’re from the western mountains. That’s where the gods came from.”
“I’ve heard strange things before but that’s one of the better ones,” said Wilson.
Kaya pouted. “Stop trying to pretend. You’re wearing His sign!”
“What? Where?”
She pointed to Wilson’s necklace. “That one of course.”
“It’s a cross.”
“And the sign of Lute,” said Kaya.
“Lute? We don’t call it that.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the cross?”
“No, I do, but it has nothing to do with this ‘Lute’ character.”
“What a strange god you are, Wilson.”
“If I’m a god why am I becoming so annoyed with your crazy stories?”
Kaya smiled. “Of course you get annoyed and have feelings, don’t be silly. Gods do what they like. If you wanted to fly you could. What else … gods can be hurt but they get better in a single day. Also, you also don’t become sick like the rest of us. You have secrets and spells.”
“Spells are for children and old women.”
Kaya squinted at Wilson and wrinkled her nose. “I’ve caught on to your secret already. You can’t fool me with jokes and pretending.”
Wilson sighed. “Changing the subject––can you sing? Let’s take turns.”
Kaya knew several old tribal songs and Wilson traded hymns with her as they followed the road beside piles of rusted metal and the delicate brown skeletons of buildings.
“Why do you say there is only one god?” asked Kaya, after an hour.
“In my village we believe in the one true god and his book. He created the sky and the earth, men and women.”
“You are speaking of Kimela. She created the first gods. Her husband died and she turned herself into a butterfly,” said Kaya.
“I knew you’d say something like that. We believe the one true god created us, sent his son to save us, and prepared a place for us to go when we die.”
“That’s strange!”
“What’s strange is your story of Adith. These ‘old gods’ were just normal men and women,” said Wilson.
“Normal to you but not me,” said Kaya.
“They died from sickness, most of them, a very bad sickness created by other men. You think the old times were fantastic but they fought each other just like we do.”
“The gods had tribes just like us?”
“You could say that. One tribe created the sickness and it killed many people. This caused all the tribes to fight together. Fire from the sky killed many of those that were left.”
“But not the gods in your tribe.”
“The people in my village were very smart. Their plans helped us survive the sickness and fires.”
Kaya laughed. “Now I believe you’re a god even more.”
“I have a feeling I won’t change your mind.” Wilson paused. “How were you captured by the Lagos?”
“I walked west of my village with friends. We gathered herbs for Teacher, but the strange Lagos men were there. We ran but they were too fast. They took the strong ones like me and my friend. The rest they …”
“I’m sorry,” said Wilson. “They brought you to Lagos?”
“Not at first. Many were chasing us from my village, so we separated to small groups. After a few days of hiding and running we came to Lagos. Those bastards treated me worse than a dog.”
“How long ago?”
“Not more than one moon, maybe two.”
Wilson stopped in his tracks and stared at Kaya.
The girl shook her head. “What?”
“Your friend’s name is Mina.”
“Yes! But how did you know?”
Wilson spread his hands. “I am a god after all.”
She tried to kneel in the grass but Wilson grabbed her hands and pulled her up.
“I know your friend because I saved her from the Lagos. They came near my village, probably chased by your people.”
The wide-eyed Kaya pulled at Wilson’s jacket. “Is she at your village?”
Wilson grimaced, thinking about his fights with Father Reed.
“For a time she was, but our people are taking her back to David. I was trying to find them when the Lagos–”
“They took her home?!!”
Kaya ran down the path at top speed. Wilson caught up and gently pulled back on her arm.
“We have to cross that ridge between the mountains,” he said. “Save your energy.”
“I don’t understand. If she was living in the beautiful cloud-home of the gods, why would she leave?”
“To see her father. Mina wants to partner with a friend of mine.”
“No! Did he use his magic on her?”
“He must have used something. Don’t look at me like that, it’s a joke!”
THEY FOLLOWED THE ROAD over the mountain to a yellow plain that stretched to the horizon. In the east rose a pillar of smoke.
Kaya pointed. “My spirit-home.”
As they crossed the heat-shimmered grassland it became obvious the smoke wasn’t from cooking fires. The smell of burning wood floated on the breeze along with the sharp crack of firearms.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” said Wilson.
He shared the rest of a water-skin with Kaya and they jogged eastward across the flatlands. The overgrown, picked-over carcasses of old machines dotted the waves of grass on both sides of the road.
The open fields gave way to dry hills scattered with spruce and pine, and the pair climbed toward the smoke. Kaya pointed out fields of corn, squash, and beans planted together. A steady and constant snap of firearms rolled from the north side of the road.
Wilson heard a violent rustle and pulled Kaya into the cover of tall grass. Men shouted nearby. A pair of tribals in yellow buckskin exploded from the bushes and legged it across the road.
“Westcreeks,” whispered Kaya.
A shot cracked and one of the fleeing tribals screamed. A man with a rifle pushed through the high grass. He wore a brown shirt with a white cross sewn on the left chest and a wide-brimmed hat. Hidden in the grass, Wilson could have reached out and touched his black leather boots.
The man pushed forward a metal lever that protected the trigger, put a cartridge in the open breech, and pulled the lever back. He aimed across the road and fired a spume of smoke and sparks from the rifle. When he fumbled and dropped the reload cartridge at his feet, he saw Wilson and Kaya.
“Holy cats!” the man yelled, and shoved the cartridge in the breech.
Kaya scrambled up from the thick grass. “Stop! It’s me!”
“Kaya? Where did you come from?”
She pointed at Wilson. “He saved me.”
“We thought you were dead!”
As bullet whizzed past, both Kaya and the man ducked their heads.
“What’s going on?” Wilson asked him in English.
The man shook his head. “Stay here.”
He reloaded his rifle and dashed across the road. Wilson heard the crack of his rifle twice and the hollow boom of a tribal gun. The man returned and both Wilson and Kaya stood up.
“Creeks tried to burn us out,” said the man. “Most of the village is fighting the fire.”
Wilson held out his hand. “The name’s Wilson.”
The man shook hands firmly and backed away. “No time to talk. Kaya, take him and help with the fire.”
He crossed the road and pushed through the manzanita bushes. Wilson and Kaya walked north and climbed over a rise toward the smoke.
A village surrounded by dry, cultivated fields lay before them, larger than Lagos and protected by a palisade of gray pine driven into the ground and spiked at the top. A pair of square towers stood inside the walls at the north and south.
Between
Wilson and the walled village lay a blackened field and a line of flames throwing up gouts of smoke. A strong breeze whipped flying embers into a row of villagers who passed buckets from a stream to the front edge of the smoke. Men swung the wooden buckets and the flying curves of water disappeared with a hiss. Other villagers swatted the embers with straw brooms or turned up the earth with shovels to create a fire-break.
Wilson and Kaya ran into the thick smoke and spent hours dumping water on the fast-spreading fire. Most villagers could stand only a few minutes of the heat before having to stumble away, arms over their faces. Wilson looked but saw no familiar faces from Station.
At last they broke through the fire line and fought from the blackened areas with the wind at their backs. In the late afternoon the wind changed direction and clouds brought sheets of rain. The last flames met a gasping, undignified end.
Throughout the day Kaya’s fellow villagers hugged her and thanked Wilson. With the fires out, people crowded around the pair as they walked to the walled village. Wilson did his best to stay apart and stared at clumps of people scattered across the blackened, rain-soaked earth.
In the distance five figures crossed a field. Wilson recognized one of the figures from the long, easy strides and began to jog in her direction. As he ran through the damp grass the people in the group turned to look. One dropped a shovel and rushed toward him. She collided into Wilson with a squeal and knocked both of them to the muddy ground.
She kissed him. “Where did you come from?!!”
“You’ll have to ask my mother, she won’t tell me,” said Wilson.
Badger kissed him again. “You bastard. I missed you so much.”
“I missed you more. I guess that’s why I’m here.”
They held each other like it had been a year instead of a week.
“Who else is with you?”
Wilson shook his head. “I came by myself.”
“You’re mad! That sounds like something I would do.”
“Well, now there are two of us.”
Badger scrambled to her feet and helped Wilson out of the mud.
“Whatever happened the last few days, you got the worst of it,” she said. “Looks like a mountain cat had her way with you then dragged your face through a thorn bush.”
A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) Page 14
