A Girl Called Badger

SEVEN



Wilson guessed the expedition was eight hours ahead. He planned to cross high above Station on the flank of Old Man, then turn north and descend to the lake. The trees would give him cover and the route would avoid patrols. No one would be monitoring the perimeter map in Reed’s office at least until the morning. That was six hours away and would give him a good lead.

Wilson headed for the eastern end of the valley and stopped only when he reached a thick forest. He closed his eyes and imagined a full moon.



Eyes made of light

Eyes made of sun

Eyes made of moon

Restore my sight



A chill spread through his left arm and dulled the pain of the lizard bite. A minute later he opened his eyes. The forest had brightened but all colors had turned a nebulous gray. The sky above was solid twilight with no constellation or star-river in sight.

Wilson started to load his crossbow––foot in the stirrup, right hand on the grip, and left hand on the reload bar––but gasped at the sudden pain in his left arm. He turned the crossbow upside down and awkwardly reloaded with his right hand. He kicked himself mentally for not thinking about it earlier. Armory had a right-hand-reload crossbow he might have filched somehow.

With clear sight and the security of a loaded bow he set a good pace. He knew the mountain well. Like the rest of the boys from the village he’d wasted plenty of hours on the rocky slopes and in the deep forests.

After half an hour he broke out of the thick pines into a meadow. The dew glistened on blades of grass and dampened boulders from ancient landslides. Wilson passed a massive stone face, where cracks and chimneys spread up to a high cliff. The wind brought the smell of moss and broken branches, and jarred loose his childhood memories.

He and a group of boys had played “ambush” in the forest eight years ago. Like most things that involve boys, it was mostly running and hiding. While looking for a good spot he’d come upon the granite face and started to climb. He’d seen the bigger boys scale the rock before, and imitated them by shoving his fists and feet in the cracks. Halfway up he slipped and landed on his leg with a dull crack. The mistake cost him nine weeks in bed. Father Reed had oddly taken pity on Wilson. His mother had only a few books, so Reed had lent the boy volumes from his personal library. Only priests were normally allowed to read these and the strange stories fascinated Wilson.

A wolf howled in the distance and Wilson realized he hadn’t used scent-cover. He cursed under his breath while searching his pack. Clothes were always washed with cedar water but he hadn’t used any on himself. He opened a small vial and rubbed yellow liquid on his skin.

He walked down a draw and over a ridgeline then fought through scrub and forest to a dirt trail worn down by generations of mule deer. After a few minutes of walking the trail followed the edge of a cliff. Far below lay the gushing waterfall that had spat him and Badger out of the underground reservoir.

Wilson stopped for a moment to watch a flock of birds glide north across the gray water. A poor-will called in the forest near the lake––low-high-low, low-high-low.

He turned from the view and saw a shape in the forest like a wolf or a dog, as black and still as a chunk of coal. His vision was fuzzy because of the sight-trick, but the ears were up and definitely canine. Just as Wilson began to think he was seeing things the wolf scratched its neck with a back leg.

Wolves were rarely seen inside the perimeter and normally left humans alone. Wilson hoped he wouldn’t be the exception. He aimed at the wolf for a second then lowered his crossbow. When he threw a stick the beast ran off. At least it wasn’t rabid. Wilson continued on the trail and the dark wolf followed. It was always just over a spur or behind a stand of trees.

The path followed the cliff then descended to the lake through a long series of switchbacks. He approached a vast blackberry patch and startled a pair of mule deer. They leapt from the towering thorn bushes and trotted away along the lake.

Wilson ate handfuls of berries and turned his head constantly, watching left, right, and behind him. The wolf was gone or at least he couldn’t see it. It wouldn’t give up his trail for a fast-moving mule deer unless it was stupid or sick. Maybe it would be better for everyone if he’d shot it.

A stream flowed out of the lake and through a mix of conifers and deciduous trees. Wilson followed the stream and thought about the last time he’d been here. The water cut deep into the earth to become a gully and eventually a deep and narrow ravine. Hiking through it would have been good cover, but he preferred the open ground at the top.

A patrol would probably be half a kilometer away. At some point he needed to turn north or risk alerting them.

A howl came from the nearby trees and Wilson knew he was in trouble. They’d either been spooked by the nearby patrol or were following the mule deer. He put his back to an oak tree at the edge of the ravine and gripped the crossbow hard.

Two gray wolves loped from the dark, white heads down and tongues out. Their blue eyes followed Wilson as they paced back and forth. They were quiet and determined, with large torsos and spindly legs. Wilson tracked the biggest with his crossbow. If he used his pistol the patrol would hear the shot and he needed more time to get off-map. What if the patrol was coming anyway?

The big wolf bared his teeth and leaped forward. Wilson pulled the trigger and missed. Yellow teeth snapped at his belly. He kicked and blocked down with the bow to fend off the snarling animal and let go of the weapon. It swung from the shoulder strap as he pulled his knife and stabbed at the big wolf. The other wolf bit at his right arm but the teeth scraped harmlessly across the leather bracer. Wilson kicked the animal away. The bigger wolf snarled and jumped again, this time for his throat. Wilson dodged to the right and the big wolf bit painfully into his elbow above the leather. He stabbed the wolf in the neck but lost his balance and stumbled backwards into thin air, weightless. The beast tumbled with him through earth and roots down the vertical side of the ravine.

Wilson tossed away the knife and raised both arms to protect his head. He landed with all his weight on a fur-covered body at the bottom. The wolf squirmed from underneath and wobbled away, the gray scruff of his neck red with blood. After a few paces along the edge of a bubbling stream it sighed and collapsed in the cold water.

The bite above his elbow wasn’t deep, but Wilson was scratched and had pains which would probably turn into bruises. He stared at the wide oak branches at the top of the ravine. The wolf had broken a fall of at least twenty meters. He stood in the stream with the dying beast and thought the gray sky looked much farther away, like a frozen crack of lightning.

Wilson heard a yelp from above and the click-scrape of a crossbow being reloaded. He looked around for cover then slid under a shallow overhang of dirt. A rustling of leaves and whispers came from above. After ten minutes Wilson heard steps moving away. He knew the hunters would take all the wolf pelts they could and hoped they hadn’t seen the big one at the bottom. After another ten minutes he quietly gathered his equipment. The prod on the crossbow looked a little bent. He wanted to check it but also needed to put some space between himself and the valley. Hausen was short-tempered and it’d be just his thing to send men after him.

Wilson found his knife in the stream then stood over the body of the big wolf. He checked for a pulse then cut a yellow fang from the slack, gaping jaws.

He followed the stream until the ravine widened and he could safely climb out. Still not free of the foothills, he trudged north over a ridgeline toward open land. He looked back constantly. Even though he was off-map now, any of the fastest hunters could still catch him.

As the sky brightened through the canopy of green leaves he stopped near a group of scrub oaks and cleaned his crossbow. The mechanism seemed a bit loose but it reloaded and dry-fired with no problem.

Wilson studied flat, treeless plains to the east. He had to make it to the forest on the horizon as quickly as possible. He walked fast, trading speed for cover, and looked back now and then.

The sun glowed orange behind the eastern peaks as he reached the trees. It was probably time for a rest. Even though he was still ten to twelve hours behind, he didn’t want to catch up too fast.

He wandered through the firs and ponderosa pine. At last he spotted a large fallen tree. A pair of red squirrels gossiped as he cut fir branches and laid them against the log to create a shelter. He ate a chunk of pemmican and drank from a water-skin, then hauled his backpack high into a nearby tree and tied the rope to a branch. He crawled into the shelter and covered the entrance with more branches, put his knives and pistol nearby, then rolled up in the bear pelt.

Wilson lay half asleep and listened to the birds and chattering squirrels. When dreams came they were fitful. He followed a trail of blood through flowers. A poor-will asked him the same questions over and over. Are you a fool? Are you a fool? Are you a fool? A wolf jumped for his throat and he jerked awake.

The teeth on his skin felt real and the branches over his head confusing. He rubbed his neck for a minute and tried to massage away the dream, then crawled out. The sun was high in the sky and his backpack still hung from the tree. The squirrel family started to gossip again. Wilson made a rude gesture then saw the ugliest wolf in his life. The one that had followed him. Except it wasn’t a wolf. In the clarity of daylight it was obviously a dog. The ears were short and the muzzle too broad. The black fur was patchy and missing in spots––a sign of mange. A lump on the head and large growths under the fur made Wilson wonder how it survived. He didn’t see other dogs nearby. Was it a loner? Only sick or deviant animals left the group. Wilson smiled to himself––maybe the dog saw a lone human and thought he was sick, too.

Wilson lowered his pack from the tree. He chewed on a strip of dried meat and did some stretches. The expedition wasn’t traveling at a break-neck pace and they would probably camp a few more hours, giving him a chance to make up ground. He wanted to be close but not so close the trailing scouts would see him. This close to Station Reed would just send him back.

He rubbed more cedar oil over himself and scattered the cut branches from the shelter. The ugly dog gulped a large chunk of meat Wilson tossed nearby. He trotted behind as they headed east through an unbroken forest.



HOURS LATER WILSON ARRIVED at an ancient road shown on his notes as a north-south line. He watched the area for fifteen minutes before running across the broken, weedy patch of rocks. Thick evergreens along the road gave good cover as he traveled north.

After a few kilometers he met a clearing where the gray fragments crossed another old trail. This road stretched east and west. Wilson waited in a patch of chokecherry, his fingers on the loaded crossbow.When he felt it was safe he circled the area looking for a campsite or signs of human travel.

He found nothing. They might have stopped somewhere else or taken a different path for any number of reasons. He could wait but they might never show up. Reed must have continued through the day, in which case Wilson was even farther behind.

He continued hiking along the faded pebbles of the new, east-west road. The map showed that this trail arrowed northeast across the high plains then straight east to Mina’s village, three days later. It was the fastest route and the one he expected Reed to take. Wilson followed the road from the trees and looked for any high point where he might scout for the group.

As evening approached, rain from a fast-moving thunderstorm soaked the tree limbs black. Wilson sheltered under low-hanging pine branches until the rain passed. As he hiked through the dripping forest the granite spike of a mountain loomed ahead.

The climb up took an hour but the view was spectacular. To the east lay a plain he’d have to cross and another mountain range. As mist rose from the treetops he spread his blanket on a flat, granite outcropping. He watched for any trail signs, such as a sudden, disturbed flock of birds, but didn’t expect Badger or the others to be that careless.

The peaceful dusk lulled him to sleep. The air gradually cooled and the stone pulled heat from his body until he woke in shivers. Wilson ate a meal of cornbread and spruce tea, and left a fistful of dried venison for the ugly dog. Before breaking camp he used the sight trick. The stars disappeared and the trees blurred into one fuzzy gray mass.

As he hiked east down the flank of the peak he startled a group of mule deer, who trotted away into the trees. A few seconds later Wilson heard a loud crash of branches and the deer hurtled in all directions. He gave the area a wide berth.

Hoots and calls played a symphony in the night air. Like a specter from a children’s story, a horned owl flapped across a clearing and snatched a brown rabbit from the grass. Wilson followed but couldn’t find the owl’s nest.

By morning his feet throbbed from hours of walking and he’d discovered no sign of the expedition. The high plains were close and he’d have to wait until dark to cross the twenty kilometers of grass and bare hills.

Wilson searched the forest. At the top of a nearby draw he found a lonely boulder. He cut spruce branches and laid them at the side to create a thick shelter. On the ground beside the boulder he relaxed and rubbed his feet with oil.

He’d been thinking about what to say to Reed. The priest would likely spew rage and punishment, and threaten to send him back to Station with a guard or two. He gambled on his teacher having a practical nature. If Reed couldn’t spare the men to send him back, the wayward apprentice would have to stay with the group.

Wilson took out his pistol and re-checked the hammer over the empty chamber. He wondered where the tribals found all of their weapons. They weren’t all the same quality. Did they steal them from underground? Other bastions of the old ways had to exist, even after centuries of chaos and scavenging.

A handful of pemmican was his dinner, and he hung the pack again from a high branch. He put more spruce branches over the shelter and slid inside with fur and blanket. Foraging squirrels put him to sleep with their hesitant rustle through the leaves.

The dreams forced him to search. This time the sunflowers filled a vast cavern. He pushed through the green stalks without direction. He’d forgotten what he was searching for, and his heart pounded and legs wobbled. A poor-will sat on his shoulder the whole time and talked in his ear: Where’re you? Where’re you?

Wilson opened his eyes and blinked in a ray of sunshine. Late afternoon light flashed behind the scrawny tops of spruce trees. The ugly dog watched him from beneath the waxy olive leaves of a privet shrub. Wilson wondered if the dog had accepted that the stupid human wasn’t going to die anytime soon, and now followed him for the scraps of food.

He walked over to lower his pack from the tree and heard a dry rattle from the ground. A diamond-patterned snake lay coiled in the leaves.

Wilson found a long-enough stick and cut the end to a fork. He jabbed a few times at the nervous reptile. It rattled and lunged when the stick came near. At last he caught it behind the head with the forked end of the stick and sliced off the body with his knife. The snake wriggled on the ground for a minute. The head hadn’t moved but Wilson knew it could bite for a long time.

Wilson took the snake back to his lean-to and made a small fire with tinder and his fire-sparker. He cut the rattle off and tossed it in the dog’s direction. The skin peeled easily once he could get a grip on it. Wilson slit the skinless body lengthwise and removed the guts. He left these for the dog. He cut the meat into smaller pieces and cooked them on a stick. When the meat cooled he pulled it off the ribs and ate until he was full. He stored one of the leftover pieces in his pack and tossed the other to the dog.

“Just promise you won’t chew on me like that,” he said, as the dog gulped the meat.

He gathered his gear and hiked to the edge of the grasslands. When twilight deepened he continued northeast across the open land, keeping the road in sight. He left behind a series of massive granite mountains footed with evergreen forest. Ahead and across the sparse brown grass spread a range of peaks. Mina’s village lay not on that horizon but the one beyond.

He started off at a walk but steadily increased his pace to a jog. Even with the pain in his feet he had to cross the grassland before morning.

After an hour, a line of water glimmered to the north––a huge lake. Wilson ignored it and continued to jog northeast. He climbed low hills covered with a few sparse pine trees, and spotted herds of elk in the distance. The strange, sickly dog constantly loped along behind, on the trail made by Wilson’s footsteps.

The open grassland and lack of cover forced him to stay as far from the road as possible. He was approaching tribal territory and they frequently used the old paths. He kept the road at the edge of sight while following his notes.

From the top of a rise he saw an intersection and a small stretch of ruins. Wilson saw no sign of man or beast, but skirted the ruins by hiking east over hills covered in sharp fragments of shale and beige stone. From the map he knew a pair of narrow lakes lay a few kilometers beyond. The lakes carved across the plains and south of his route, but if he followed a feeder stream into the mountains he would meet the east-west road. Wilson wondered why it couldn’t have a better name than “24.” The old days must have been fast and furious if they had no time to spare for good names.

Wilson jogged along the north shore as the hill flattened to the knife edge of the first lake. Groups of mule deer, ground squirrels, and screech owls busied themselves in the cool night. A stream linked the western finger lake to the eastern one, which stretched in a bright line to the horizon.

Wilson stopped to refill his empty water skins. He finished the first. As he plugged it with a cork he heard a whuffing sound. He dropped the skin and grabbed his pistol.

The bear rumbled along the lake shore like a brown boulder with gaping jaws. Pale yellow splotches covered the rolling brown fur and water matted the lower half.

To flee would be suicide––no man could outrun a bear. Wilson aimed his pistol with two hands and pulled the trigger. It boomed and jerked up in his hands. The bear stopped short and turned its head left and right. Wilson fired again. The bear turned tail and sprayed clots of mud back the way it came.

Wilson jogged with more spirit to the eastern range. Apart from the bear the plains around him were as dull and flat as the nearby lake. The occasional pop of firearms rolled from far to the north. His running bothered a flock of black and white geese. They splashed by the hundreds across the dark water and into the night sky.

After sunrise he made it to the evergreens at the foot of the mountain range and followed a rushing feeder stream into the hills. Granite formations rose in vertical walls around the spruce trees as he climbed higher in elevation. The stream on his right foamed and roared over the stones.

Wilson stopped in his tracks and pulled his pistol. In the black mud of the stream bank lay the sharp outline of human feet.

To his right the curling whitewater sprayed clouds of vapor in the air. Sheer granite walls rose to a summit overgrown with stubborn pines. On his side of the stream the trail sloped upward through a thick forest of pine and spruce.

Wilson considered his options. To cross the roaring whitewater at this point looked impossible. If he actually made it to the other side, the cover would be sparse and the climb difficult. On the other hand, if he turned around and backtracked to the plain he’d lose half a day.

He touched the edges of the prints in the mud then followed them along the path. The marks were strangely deep at times. The trail ended beside a leather sack at the bottom of a wide oak tree.

Wilson stopped for a moment. He heard nothing but the foaming roar of the nearby stream. In spite of his best judgement, he crept closer to the discarded sack.

Metal scraped on wood above his head and Wilson looked up to the lower branches. The black muzzles of two rifles pointed at his face.

“Ne movigu,” said one of the tribals.



AFTER PAWING THROUGH ALL of his gear they took him north through the mountains. Wilson’s hands were tied in front with his own rope and this made the rocky trail even harder. He was forced to walk between the two men, and the front one pulled him with the rope like a sheep. The two tribals didn’t say much and Wilson had time to mentally kick himself over and over.

“Where are we going?” he asked in the dialect.

“No talking,” said the larger one.

The tall and weathered men walked along the trail with purpose, the long-barreled rifles resting on their shoulders. The “circle-of-thorns” tattoo––the old biohazard symbol––on the right side of their faces reminded Wilson of the men who’d kidnapped Mina. Both wore silver wolfskins and wide-brimmed hats decorated with feathers. The tribal in front had leather bracelets around his biceps and a wolf-tooth necklace.

With warm sun on his right ear he knew they traveled northeast. No breaks were taken, not even for the afternoon thunderstorm that soaked all of them to the skin. They waded through a whitewater stream and followed an old trail to the northeast. Wilson thought he knew where he was. If he could escape he might find the east-west road.

The pair never stopped watching even when they stopped for the night. His neck rope was tied to the foot of the smaller tribal and the two bantered back and forth about who should stay up. From what Wilson could understand, he was a valuable prisoner. That was probably the reason they’d given him food and water. He fell asleep wondering whether his value came from how he might taste.

A jerk on the leash woke him. In the gray light before dawn they started again. The road curved through mountains dotted with scrubby trees and led to a wide valley and a lake. A tribal village––flat and uneven like a muddy scab––sat on the near shore, surrounded by a timber palisade. The huts inside were made of the same sturdy logs as the outer wall. White smoke from cooking fires bent sideways in the breeze.

His captors led him past a wooden guard shack. A half-naked tribal boy jumped from the shack and sped down the hill toward the village. A small gate opened for him in the palisade.

The two men didn’t take him to the village but to a group of wooden huts outside the walls. The large tribal opened one of the huts and pushed Wilson inside. The interior was dark and the floor was packed earth. On it rested a few sticks of moldy furniture: a wooden chair with arms, a table, and a sheepskin-covered bed. Even with the fresh air from the doorway the room was foul with body odor. There were no windows.

The two men pushed Wilson into the chair and tied his arms to a metal loop in the seat. His ankles were bound to the wooden legs. The small tribal lit a candle then dumped Wilson’s gear on the table and left. Wilson pulled against the rope but unfortunately it was quality hemp from Station.

A few minutes later the door creaked and two tribals entered. Gunmetal hair covered the shoulders of the first man like a mane. Around the graybeard’s neck hung the biohazard symbol, a silver pendant of gleaming, sharp rings. Thick with muscles, the second man scraped the top of the door frame as he stooped to enter. The black ring symbol marked his right cheek. Several long knives were sheathed in his belt and he held a two-shot pistol.

The younger man closed the door and waited while the other tribal sorted through Wilson’s gear. The graybeard mumbled with interest at a few items, including the fire-starter.

“You can’t treat a guest this way,” Wilson said in the dialect.

The graybeard turned and slapped him hard in the face.

“You know Anglan. Speak it!”

Wilson’s face stung but he kept the ruse going.

“What is ... Anglan?”

“Liar!” The old man stabbed a finger at the cross around Wilson’s neck. “You can’t hide that stupid accent or your stupid Anglan god.” He went back to the gear on the table.

“I found it on a dead man. How should I know what it is?”

The old man held Wilson’s hunting knife to the candlelight. “No one else makes such knives.” He leaned closer. “Admit it and I’ll let you keep an eye. Are you planning to attack?”

The graybeard waved the knife in his face and a bead of sweat rolled down Wilson’s nose. The room became oppressively hot.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

The old man noticed the dried blood on Wilson’s left sleeve. He untied the rope around Wilson’s wrists and removed the leather bracer. The white bandages underneath were spotted with blood. He re-tied Wilson’s right wrist to the metal loop. The old man left Wilson’s bandaged arm free and simply held it on the wooden arm of the chair.

“I’m done playing games,” said the old man.

He poked at the bandages with the point of the knife, tenderly at first, then deeply. Wilson jerked with pain and tears rolled from his eyes.

“How about now?”

“I’ll talk,” Wilson said, only half-acting. “I’m from a large village to the south. We’re all Anglan. When our brothers called for help we came.”

The old man folded his arms.

“I was scouting ahead of the main group when your men caught me,” said Wilson.

“How many?”

Wilson cleared his throat. “I need water.”

“Don’t waste my time!”

“I haven’t had water for a day! If you want me to talk–”

The old man waved his hand. The big tribal left the room and closed the door after himself.

“How many men?”

“Fifty.”

The old man cut the bandages with the knife. He played the point around the bite marks.

“Really?”

“Yes!”

The old man jabbed the point deep into the arm and Wilson howled. Through a blur of tears he tried to control his breathing and use the calming trick.



Breath made of ice

Breath made of water

Breath made of fog

Calm my heart



The pain in his arm quickly turned to ice from the inside-out. The old man was more interested in finding a new spot for his knife than his prisoner’s change in breathing. He continued to hold Wilson’s wrist and leaned closer to look at the scar on the inside of the forearm.

It was a fatal mistake and over in seconds. Wilson shot his left hand forward to break free and grabbed a blade from the old man’s belt. He stabbed up into the graybeard’s soft throat then dodged left and right as the old man gurgled and slashed weakly with the hunting knife. At last he collapsed, blood bubbling from the hand at his neck.

Wilson cut himself free with the small blade and stepped around the body. He strapped on his belt and stuck his knives in it plus the old man’s blade. His pistol was missing. He took a second to grab his backpack and whatever was in it.

He burst out the door and ran headlong into the big tribal. The man grabbed for him but Wilson dodged and ran for it. Something hard smashed into the back of his head. He dropped to his hands and knees and his eyes swirled with black spots. The pounding in his head matched the patter of footsteps.

Feet kicked at Wilson and he protected his head. Tribals yelled and spit at him, more by the second. He blocked the kicks and tried to stand up, then heard a woman’s voice.

“Ne tus li!”

An older woman waved her arms and yelled more warnings in the dialect. Two giant tribals in green tunics pushed the crowd away.

Wilson got to his feet slowly and kept hands at his sides. The older woman walked toward him. Her gray hair was split harshly into a pair of braids and she wore a green robe the same color as the two giants. Like the old man, she wore a silver necklace of interlocking rings.

“Who are you?” she asked in the dialect.

“No one important,” said Wilson.

A woman screamed inside the small hut. The older woman left to investigate while the giant guards stood over Wilson. She returned quickly and spread her arms to the crowd.

“Marcus is dead,” she shouted.

Most danced with glee but a few gave Wilson looks of grim hatred. A handful of women and children wailed and ran into the hut.

“You should have been brought to me,” said the older woman.

Wilson searched for the right idiom in the dialect. “So you could have the first bite?”

The woman tilted her head. “You speak strangely. Where is your spirit-home?”

“Far to the west. My name is Wilson.”

“Wilson from the west, I’m Flora. I will treat your injuries at my home.”

“Can’t I just leave?”

“No. You’re my property. Fight the rest of the village with those wounds or come with me.”

Wilson was still dizzy. He touched the back of his head and his fingers were covered in blood. The journey had drained his energy and now a huge crowd surrounded him.

“I’ll come with you,” he said.

“Wise boy. There’s only one problem––you’ve killed a member of the tribe, one with a strong spirit-weight. You can’t enter the village until you pass before his family.”

Wilson sighed. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“You may not see it and it may not be a good one, but it always exists.”

“I understand. I’ll pass before the family.”

His knives and gear were taken and he was stripped to the waist. Her fingernails black with dirt, an old crone painted foul-smelling red symbols on Wilson’s back and chest. A group of tribals carried the wrapped body of the dead man to the village.

In front of the wooden gate stood two parallel lines of tribals with two meters of space in between. The men and women held clubs and long sticks wrapped with leather.

A stout tribal with onion breath led him towards the line of people. “Walk slowly like a man and give us a show, you filth. If we’re lucky they’ll kill you.”

Wilson stepped between the first pair and clubs smashed into his shins and belly. He used the calm-trick and kept walking, a blank expression on his face. The second pair of blows cracked him on the side of the head and he fell flat, his eyes full of black sparkles.

“Not on the head, you inbred sons of rat-vomit!” spat the old crone.

Wilson got to his feet and took clout after clout as he limped to the end of the line. He was bruised and covered in blood, but hadn’t said a word. A few of the tribals watched him with embarassed respect.

A boy guided Wilson to a house and a dark bedroom. Strange objects lined the walls: rusted gears, valves, and metal parts. He washed the blood from his body at a wooden basin. He used a strip of cloth to bandage the lizard bite on his arm then crawled under a sheepskin blanket.



HE WOKE IN THE dark, confused at the unfamiliar bed and strange smells. Everything fell into place after a few seconds and he threw off the sheepskin.

The wooden door opened outwards. A bored tribal leaned against the wall in the narrow hallway. The two-shot pistol in his hand pointed at the floor.

“This way,” said the tribal.

He prodded Wilson to a larger room. In the candlelight Wilson saw a low, square table circled with cushions. On the table were wooden plates, spoons, and a setting of dried flowers. The guard pointed to a cushion and stood in a corner with folded arms.

Wilson looked at the old paintings on the walls. One was of a street scene, another a farm with explosions of bright flowers. He’d only seen paintings in books, never in person.

“Do you like it?”

Flora stood in a doorway. She’d re-done her hair into a long wave and wore a purple robe. It made her look twenty years younger.

“I’m talking about the painting,” said Flora

“I’m sorry. I’ve never seen any before,” Wilson said.

She plopped onto a cushion with an exhausted sigh. “I’m not surprised. They were very difficult to find.”

“They’re beautiful. But why do you collect them?”

Flora smiled. “I don’t know if I can answer that question. Why does a cat chase a butterfly?”

“It wants to catch it.”

“Does it really? Have you watched a cat? It loves to play, to hunt. It is the same for people. The enjoyment of life is in the chase of these things––finding but not having. Like a cat, the having of things quickly bores me.”

“Am I the butterfly or the cat right now?”

“Now the butterfly, tomorrow the cat. Do you know this saying?”

Boys entered the room carrying trays of steaming food. Wilson filled his plate with corn cakes, beans, and rice.

“What’s the name of this place?”

“We’re the Lago people. Your spirit-home is David, from your speech.”

Wilson shook his head.

“Then where is it?”

“I said before––to the west.”

“And you speak Anglan?”

“All of us grow up speaking it. Only a few know the tribe-voice, but I am scienculo. My role is to speak tribe-voice and to read–”

Flora’s eyes widened. “Read!”

“Everyone can read in my spirit-home,” said Wilson.

Flora moved the rice around her plate with a spoon. “A village of this kind in the mountains ... I’ve never heard of it.”

“We don’t like visitors.”

“Your words remind me of the Circle man. He said he came from far to the east.”

“This Circle is a village in the east?”

“It’s a big tribe, with more than one village. We send slaves to them for weapons and healing powders.”

They finished the meal in silence. Flora pushed away her plate and pulled two wooden pipes from her pocket.

“Leaf?”

Wilson took the pipe. It was similar to the ones back home. He packed a thumb-size of leaf into the barrel and lit it with a candle.

Flora blew smoke puffs. “Reading is a remarkable skill.”

“Remarkable or not, I’m your prisoner.” Wilson coughed from the smoke.

Flora inhaled on the pipe and let the smoke curl from her mouth.

“You’re spirit-home is not David or you would know about prisoners and slaves. Men and women are taken while traveling or in battle, then traded. We capture a few from Westcreek, they capture some of our scouts and we parlay our men back, trade-for-trade. We’ve had many parlays the last few summers. The man you killed––Marcus––hated all of that. His followers raided David and likely planned more secret killings. They would burn Westcreek and David to the ground and turn their people into slaves.”

“You want something different?”

“I want peace. Sometimes that comes in war, and sometimes in parlay.”

“No one will parlay for me. They don’t even know I’m here.”

Flora smiled. “Marcus is dead, but his followers want blood. You’ve stopped them for a moment but they are strong-headed. So you can’t stay here and I can’t lose face by letting you leave.”

The leaf was making Wilson dizzy. “Let me sneak away. At night.”

“No. Too much danger of being caught. What I will do is trade you, life for life. Westcreek is a village to the north. A few days ago I parlayed slaves to them for captured hunters. My spies tell me they take these slaves to Circle on the half-moon, which is tomorrow. Bring back the slaves and I’ll give you freedom.”

“I suppose I have no choice.”

“You keep saying that, Wilson. You can hope for parlay but it will take time.”

“How can I bring the slaves back by myself?”

“I’ll send men with you.”

“The same ones that want me dead?”

Flora shrugged. “Hard men respect strength. Show it during the raid and I can free you.”

Wilson couldn’t tell if it was the leaf or what he’d been drinking, but he felt a strange tingling in his fingers and toes.

“These hard men will stick a knife in my back,” he said slowly.

Flora blew a swirl of leaf-smoke. “Don’t be a child, Wilson. Our men are bears. They will stab you in the heart.”



HER PIPE FINISHED, Flora left to organize the raid.

Wilson washed himself at the wooden basin in his room and meditated with the calming trick. It numbed the pain from his injuries.

A tribal brought his gear and the stolen pistol. He cleaned everything and sharpened his knives. The crossbow needed an adjustment but he didn’t have the tools. Wilson took another painkiller. He used a sterilizer packet on his wounds and changed the bandages.

He waited in the lantern-light in front of Flora’s home. Tribals in hunting gear slowly formed a group nearby. Some gave him the stink-eye. Eventually Flora and a female servant appeared and passed cloth bundles to each man.

“Change to these on the trail.” she said to Wilson. “Don’t ask why.”

She handed a cup full of black liquid to everyone in the raiding party. Wilson drank the hot and bitter mixture in a few gulps. It smelled of licorice.

“Listen!” Flora raised her voice. “Lagos!”

She held a lantern and peered at the face of each man. “You’re the strongest and the fastest in this village. You hate Westcreek. Your slaves serve food at their tables while they laugh at us. They’re laughing at our parlay. Can you feel it? Can you feel them laughing? You’re going to steal our slaves back and kill many Creeks. Their wives and mothers will shed tears in Westcreek tomorrow, because of you!”

Flora dipped her left hand in white paint and the right in black. She placed her hands on the cheeks of each man, including Wilson, and waved farewell.

The seven tribals and Wilson set off in the dark. A short tribal with sharp eyes set a blistering pace from the front. Wilson was glad for the painkiller and wondered what he’d do when it was all gone.

An hour into running along forest trails they stopped for a break. Wilson sat against a tree, his body covered with sweat. His hands rested on the weapons in his belt as he watched the other raiders. Three of the men who’d given him the worst looks talked for a bit then walked to Wilson.

He hadn’t noticed another pair creeping behind the tree. They grabbed his arms and jerked him up.

“What–!”

The tribals took away Wilson’s knives and pistol. The tallest leaned down and Wilson smelled rotting meat.

“You took my father’s life, I take yours. Life for life.”

“He was going to kill me,” said Wilson. “A trapped dog bites anyone.”

The tall tribal spat on the ground. “Are you a child? We don’t kill prisoners, we send them to the Circle.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“That’s not my problem. My father is dead and you’ll serve him in heaven.”

The tall tribal walked to a small clearing and stripped to the waist. Red scars crossed his lean-muscled chest. The others pulled off Wilson’s jacket and shirt then pushed him forward. Wilson knew what to expect when they gave his knife back and the tall tribal pulled out a foot-long blade. He flexed his free hand and whispered the calming trick as other raiders surrounded them.

When he opened his eyes the tall tribal jumped at him. Wilson dodged a feint and stab. They circled, stabbing and pawing like cats. Wilson was smaller and faster. He kept out of reach to try and wear down the bigger man. He still caught a slash across the back of his arm and a rock-hard punch to the kidneys. At last he used a double-leg feint learned from the hunters at Station and sliced the back of the tall tribal’s hand. The tribal dropped his knife and Wilson grabbed a thumb and pushed it to the ground. The tribal squirmed in the leaves and tried to pull away but Wilson’s knife was at his throat.

“I’m sorry your father is dead,” said Wilson. “Parlay?”

“Parlay.”

“I won’t kill you. Trade your life for my spirit-debt.”

The big tribal grunted and Wilson let him go. The rest of the group seemed satisfied with the result. Wilson took his knives and pistol back.

After more hard travel they stopped to change clothing. The outfits Flora had given them included a brown shirt, red sash, and a wide-brimmed black hat. On the upper chest of each shirt was a cross.

Dawn brightened the sky as they came to the ambush point. A dirt path ran through the forest along an east-west ridge. Near the feet of the raiders it turned north and descended through a steep ravine.

The tribals untied out the other bundle they had brought and pulled out the head and skin of a mule deer. They filled the skin with dirt and arranged it down at the trail.

Two men were sent east and west to scout quietly. Three of the raiders spread out below the lip of the ravine and buried themselves in piles of leaves and brown spruce needles. Wilson and two more went to the other side of the ravine and dug in beneath the roots of a half-fallen tree.

Time passed. A gentle wind flowed from the north. Wilson watched squirrels chattering and jumping through the spruce and fir trees. He ate some fruit and dried meat and drained a water skin.

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.”