A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (16 page)

“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.”