A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (3 page)

“Of course.”

“Each returns bandaged from surgery. Throughout this person’s life, he or she will always carry several scars. The longest is on the left arm.”

“I don’t see how this applies to Badg– ... Airman Chen.”

“It’s central to her problem, but what I’m about to tell you must be kept absolutely secret. During the name-giving ceremony, objects are implanted beneath the scars. It’s all underground and I’ve never seen the surgery myself but I know the objects are there. My teacher taught me about them before he passed on.”

“But why? What use are they?”

“The myth about the name-giving ceremony is that it makes us stronger, faster, more attractive to the opposite sex, et cetera and ad nauseum. These are mostly old wive’s tales in my opinion. Specifically to Airman Chen, the scanner notes a ‘power connection’ problem and that refers to a problem with the objects. As I mentioned, I’ve treated it before.”

Wilson looked at the ancient books for a moment, then stared at Reed.

“If this foreign object is the problem, why not remove it?”

Reed pretended to search the pockets of his green jumpsuit. “Did I lose that Book of Ultimate Answers To Apprentice Questions?” He rubbed the top of the display screen with a finger and made it squeak. “Any surgery on the left arm can initiate cardiac arrest. It’s not in that medical text you just grabbed but I know we’ve talked about it.”

“Sorry. She wasn’t born here, maybe–”

“None of the other tribal-born ever had issues with the ceremony.”

“Maybe old records in the database–”

“Listen, I’ve been leader of this Station for more summers than you’ve been alive. The database has nothing pertinent, and in any case I’ve treated this condition before. You’d better return to your studies and forget about the whole incident.”

“Why?”

“Because suddenly everything is different.” He pushed a finger into Wilson’s chest. “She’s gotten under your skin.”

WILSON WAITED A FEW days for the right moment. He avoided the topic of Badger’s seizures, worked hard on his tasks, and helped weed and water crops in the wide fields of hemp and corn. In addition to studying medicine, tribal dialects, and in Wilson’s mind just about everything useless under the sun, he had to spend time in all the professions of the village.

Normally he welcomed the farm chores in the early morning. The constant motion of his arms into the fresh earth, his skin prickly from the warm sun and trousers wet from dew––all of this gave him time to think. Now he wished he could slam the door on his wandering thoughts and swallow the key.

He thought about the soft skin on her arms and the way she’d laughed at him. Did she think about him the same way? It was more likely she’d fall in love with a caterpillar. He found a black and orange striped one resting on a tomato leaf and squashed it angrily, then lifted the hoe and worked up a furious sweat. Wilson, the bumbling slave to everyone and master of none. What made the situation more embarrassing was that priests never took a partner from the village. They always studied the dialects and always partnered with someone from the outside. Apprentices in other professions also found tribal partners if they had the means. “By hook or by crook,” as Father Reed joked. Wilson found absolutely nothing funny about it. He imagined getting stuck with some tattooed witch who thought soap was something you drank from a pot. The fact that tribals had killed his father didn’t make the idea any more attractive.

Father Reed went for a walk after the mid-day meal and left Wilson alone with the database. He already had the access code and pass from months ago. He activated the database screen and started the search function.

db query: Bryant Chen A1C

Six entries appeared:

CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 03.21.2002

DOI 03.21.2051

DOD 12.30.2063

CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 10.14.2065

DOI 10.14.2077

DOD 08.02.2117

CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 11.28.2128

DOI 11.28.2150

DOD 02.18.2190

CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 12.01.2213

DOI 12.01.2225

DOD 05.07.2251

CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB 03.04.2262

DOI 03.04.2274

DOD 06.20.2263

CHEN BRYANT A1C

DOB UNKNOWN

DOI 04.23.2308

DOD ––

Wilson knew the last section was Badger’s. April 23 was her birthday and her name-giving ceremony––the ‘DOI’––had been four years ago, when she was twelve. The earliest entry was the original Bryant Chen and member of the founders.

It was incredibly odd that parents gave their children names in the old days. How did that work? Did they just pick a name at random? He touched the screen and expanded the data. The medical history of the founder and each namesake included dates and descriptions of various illnesses.

Wilson abruptly jabbed the power button and stumbled straight out of the bunker. He covered his eyes from the bright sunlight and spat on the ground.

Father Reed had lied to him. The founder and all of his namesakes had died within a month of the first seizure.

LONG AFTER THE SUN had dropped behind the mountains, Wilson lay under a nut pine on the slopes of Old Man. The low branches hid him from view and he was high enough to see the entire valley. Most people avoided the mountain because of the Tombs and the ghost stories, but Wilson enjoyed the solitude. He didn’t believe in spirits or children’s fairy tales. Usually he slept or watched the clouds creep along, lazy and oblivious. Today he listened to the trill of nightjars and watched a pair of the brown birds fly together in the cool evening sky.

He’d be needed for some random chore sooner or later, so Wilson took a long and indirect route back to the village. A long-limbed boy with red hair squatted near the rectory and used a paring knife on a stick. Wood shavings sprayed the bare ground as Wilson approached.

“Robb, what are you doing?”

“Huh?” The boy looked up. “Finally! I’ve been to hell and back looking for you.”

“What is it now?”

“If you’re going to get mad just forget it.” Robb dropped the stick and walked away.

“I’m sorry. What’s the message, please?”

Robb spun around. “Oh! You’re on duty tonight! With your girlfriend! GAA ha ha!” He ran as fast as he could. Wilson threw the stick but missed.

“I’m off the rotation!”

Father Reed was supposed to change the schedule so Wilson could study nocturnal pests in the orchard. He hadn’t done night duty for weeks but it looked like tonight was different. Robb wouldn’t lie about something like that.

It was probably for the best he hadn’t chased the boy––half a dozen people were watching.

WILSON PULLED THE BOX of hunting gear from under his bunk. He donned a thick woolen coat and strapped a leather belt around his waist. A six-inch blade slid into the left scabbard and a smaller knife the right.

Inside Armory Mast handed him a crossbow and a rucksack containing a packet of bolts, a water skin, dried food, and a wool blanket. The big teenager slid a wooden mask across the table to Wilson.

“Take this one. It’s my favorite,” said Mast.

Wilson stared at the sharp teeth and yellow eyes painted on the black wood.

“However,” said Mast, “The look on your ugly mug would stop a bear in his tracks or kill a chipmunk outright, so just leave it.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s only night duty. You can sleep and Badger won’t say much. Just don’t touch her accidentally on purpose,” said Mast.

Wilson frowned. “Tell me something I don’t know, Captain Obvious.”

“Okay. The difference between girls and–“

“Shut up before I ram something in your eye. Like my fist.”

Mast laughed. “Anyway, Badger has spirit. She just couldn’t handle me.”

“That broken nose says different.”

“No,” said Mast. “I mean, she couldn’t ‘handle’ me. Too much of a man. Get it? Yeah? Are you getting me?”

“Oh, I get it––you’re an idiot.”

Wilson grabbed the hunting mask and walked out.

“Just a joke, friend! Don’t tell Badger I said that. Okay? Wilson? I never said that! Wilson! Ha ha ha, my friend, Wilson!”

Mast banged his fist on the table and rattled all the tools and knives.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he whispered.

BADGER STOOD OUTSIDE ARMORY in the thick wool and leather of duty gear, crossbow slung over a shoulder and hunting mask hanging from her belt.

She’d tied a feather in her hair with red string and it made Wilson curious, but not enough to risk a punch in the mouth.

“Ready?” she asked.

Wilson nodded.

Neither spoke as they walked south through Station. It was early twilight and the villagers chatted in small groups or carried tools from the fields. Children played around the gardens and in the grassy mounds and hollows.

Wilson followed ten paces behind Badger. He tried to step exactly where she stepped, for no reason other than to keep his mind off the database. They descended through the high granite walls of the pass and followed a winding trail around boulders and fallen trees. Pine branches swished in a cold gust of wind and Wilson pulled his cap tighter around his ears. He thought about things he could say that wouldn’t make him look like an idiot.

Badger sniffed. “Where’s your cedar oil?”

“My what?”

Badger left the trail. She returned with two fistfuls of green, oval leaves.

“Rub these over your face, hands, and everything.”

“Why?”

“You’ve been hunting before, right? It’s to cover the scent.”

“But I don’t smell,” said Wilson.

“Maybe not to people.”

The dirt path wound back and forth through a dozen switchbacks to the deep woodland foothills. The path split east and west at a dead oak. Wilson liked to think of the tree as a giant bear who used her gray limbs and claws to protect the pass.

Badger cupped hands around her mouth and hooted three times. A faint, similar answer came from the forest. Wilson followed Badger as the path curved east through the forest and down the flanks of hills.

No moon hung in the dark, overcast sky but Wilson’s eyes gradually adjusted. After a kilometer the path followed a stream to a wide clearing in the trees. Badger stopped before they left the tree line and hooted again. The response came from up the slope and a minute later two shapes separated from the trees. The men whispered a few words to Badger, shook her hand, and left.

Badger clicked her tongue softly and left the path. She crept under a blackened, fallen log and disappeared. Wilson removed his rucksack and unslung his crossbow. He squeezed through a tight opening under the log into a tiny earthen chamber. The dark, circular space was only big enough for two people to crouch together or lie flat. The fallen log and sawn beams above their heads supported a warm ceiling of sod and leaves. At the front was a small opening. A person could lie flat in the dirt and have a bit of light and a view of the tree line and clearing. On the left and right were other gaps between the ceiling and earth for watching the sides.

Wilson pushed his rucksack to the back and slid across the dirt to the front opening. He set the crossbow in front and checked the loaded bolt.

“Quiet,” whispered Badger.

“Sorry.”

Wilson lay still and watched the clearing. The breeze lifted waves of tree limbs and scattered pine needles on the hillside.

Badger whispered something.

“What?” he whispered back.

Badger sighed and pulled him closer, her mouth dangerously close to his ear.

“Rain.”

“Not in the forecast,” he murmured.

“Wait–”

She said something he didn’t understand but it didn’t sound positive.

“Sorry?”

Badger slid backwards and quietly opened her pack. She put something small and soft into his hand. Her fingers were out of her gloves and warm.

“Eat.”

Wilson put the leaves into his mouth and chewed. The spearmint tasted sharp and fresh.

“You got Simpson to put me on night duty,” he said.

“Glad you figured that out,” she whispered, “Now, genius, what about my problem?”

Wilson leaned close to Badger’s ear. Her thick black hair smelled of pine tar and earth. Of leaves and sweat.

“I don’t know,” he said at last.

Badger jabbed an elbow into his ribs. “You’re either lying or the worst priest ever. You had days to find out.”

Wilson rubbed his side. “The founder with your name and all the descending namesakes had it.”

“Every single one? I don’t believe it. What happened to them?”

Wilson shifted uncomfortably in the small space.

Badger grabbed his arm. “Talk!”

Both she and Wilson leaned together and banged upper lips and teeth painfully. Badger held her mouth and kicked Wilson in the leg.

“Sorry!”

“Watch what you’re doing!” Badger mumbled through her fingers.

“I didn’t mean to–”

“Quiet,” she whispered. “Look there.”

A few drops splattered from the tree branches.

“It’s just rain,” he said, and touched his lips. They felt swollen but in the dark he couldn’t see any blood.

“No,” said Badger softly. “In the clearing.”

Wilson strained to see through the faint drizzle.

“Still don’t–”

She pushed his chin left and pointed. Wilson saw a dark shape across the clearing, a few hundred yards away and barely noticeable against the trees.

“Tribals,” said Badger.

“Cat’s teeth, how can you see that far?”

Badger kept her eyes on the clearing. “Smell that? A cooking fire. Only priests or tribals would be that stupid and you’re right here.”

Wilson snorted. “Thanks for the kind words.”