A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (17 page)

“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.”

EIGHT

F
lora’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?”