by Heidi Skarie
Conscious Women Conscious Relationships: True Stories of Wisdom & Awareness on the Path of Relationships
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WIND FROM THE MOUNTAIN
By Heidi Skarie
Setting: Seventeen years after Star Rider and Bonds of Love
Baymond rose to his feet and faced the elder, grimly aware that his fate was in this man’s hands. The others in the council room also stood: the robed council members, the Deutzian guards in their coarsely-woven tunics, the witness who had testified against him, and the Samrat officer impeccably dressed in a gray uniform. The elder turned uncompassionate eyes to Baymond and began to speak in the interplanetary language, his words difficult to understand because of his heavy accent. “Baymond Michio Kimes, the council has determined that you are a Coalition spy. You are to be put to death at dawn five days hence.”
“No!” exclaimed Baymond as a chill of dread shot through him. “I’m not a spy—just a pilot! My ship was shot down. I was trying to find a way back to my unit.”
“Silence! We have heard your testimony,” replied the elder. “Take him away.”
“I’m more valuable alive—the Coalition will exchange one of your soldiers for me.”
The elder’s face darkened. “You are a demon dropped from the sky. You are killing our people and destroying our land.”
“They are the ones who are killing your people and destroying your land!” said Baymond pointing at the Samrat officer. “The Coalition space fleet came here to help your people.”
“The Samrat officer is a servant of the god, Samrat Condor. I won’t allow you to speak blasphemy.” The elder turned to the guards. “Take him from the room.”
Two guards seized him. In one dance-like spin, Baymond knocked one guard to the ground with the side of his hand and the other down with his foot, then he sprang toward the door.
“Halt or I’ll fire,” ordered the Samrat officer. Freezing, Baymond looked at the officer and saw he had drawn a blaster. “The elder has allowed you five days to prepare yourself for death. I will kill you in an instant.”
Baymond’s shoulders slumped, and he allowed a guard to bind his wrists behind his back.
“See, he is a dangerous spy!” said the witness, in the Deutzian language. “What did I tell you?”
Baymond glared at the man who’d betrayed him. “You’re a traitor to your people and a murderer!” Baymond shouted in the man’s own language, struggling to break the leather bonds on his wrists.
Two guards hauled Baymond from the council room, took him down several stone stairways, and threw him into a dark cell. He fell to the ground and, unable to regain his balance with his hands bound, slammed his shoulder and head against the stone floor. He lay still, stunned, his head throbbing in pain. Someone moved nearby. Realizing he wasn’t alone, he turned toward the sound. In the shadows, he made out a wiry old man who was watching him from a make-shift bed of straw.
Baymond struggled into a sitting position and stared back. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light he could make out the man’s features. He had a large hook nose, a long beard, and disheveled white hair. He wore typical Deutzian clothing, consisting of a tunic and pants, both homespun. Baymond wondered if he’d be spending his last hours with a murderer or crazy man; this was clearly no soldier. Aware of his vulnerability, Baymond pulled uneasily against the strap binding his wrists, heedless of the pain as it bit into his skin.
Speaking in the Deutzian tongue, the old man said gently, “No need to struggle, lad. I’ll untie you.” He moved over to Baymond and began working at the bindings. “Your struggles have tightened the knots and made them difficult to untie, but I will have them undone soon. You must have put up quite a fight to be bound. The guards are usually kind to those who have only a few days of life left. It is a custom among our people to respect a man’s last hours.”
“Why should I go willingly to my death? I’m not a spy as they accuse me!” Baymond replied. “And don’t call me ‘lad’ I’m a man and nearly eighteen.”
“So you do speak our tongue. I was beginning to wonder when you remained silent.” The fastenings finally fell away, and the old man sat back on his pallet before continuing. “Ah the impatience of youth. Will fighting your fate change anything?”
“Have I anything to lose? I’m to be put to death five days hence.”
“And I in four.”
“For what crime?” Baymond asked, rubbing his sore wrists.
“Does there have to be a crime in this time of discord?”
“No, I suppose not,” Baymond replied, feeling less agitated. “Thank you for untying my wrists.” Knowing this kind man was also close to death gave Baymond a feeling of affinity to him. He moved over to the cell wall and sat down on the remaining pallet.
“You speak my language well,” said the old man.
“I’ve lived among your people for several months. My spacecraft was shot down, and a young woman found and hid me in her family’s home.” His voice hitched as he thought of Rissa. It was hard to talk about her.
