A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (4 page)

“You’re welcome. By the way, when does the moon rise?”

“At midnight. That’s still a few hours away.”

“Then we don’t have much time. Come on.”

Wilson stared at her. “You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I just want to take a look,” said Badger. She checked her crossbow and bolts. “Stay here if you’re scared. You might shoot me by accident anyway.”

Wilson’s ears burned. “I’ve hunted before. If I shoot you, it’s on purpose.”

“So be it, killer.”

They slid out of the tight exit and crouched over damp pine needles down the hillside. After crossing the stream, the pair circled east, using the forest as cover.

Downwind of the camp, the smells of unwashed humans and wood smoke filled Wilson’s nose. He looked over the clearing to the right and bumped into Badger’s backside.

“Sorry!”

“Stay here and be quiet,” she hissed.

Badger set her crossbow in the high grass and strapped on a wooden mask with green eyes. She unsheathed her hunting knife and continued alone through the field. Wilson quickly lost sight of her and stared at the shadowy figure squatting just inside the forest.

A bob-white called from the middle of the field. Nightjars buzzed and chirped as they flew low over the grass and grabbed insects from the air.

Something cracked near the shadow-figure. It stood and Wilson’s heart took a few extra beats at once. A small black and brown shape leaped into the first and pushed it to the ground, startling the bob-white. With a flash of white-patched wings it flew toward the stream. A few seconds later the small shape moved back into the trees.

The seed-heavy grass bent with the breeze and a drop of rain rolled down the back of Wilson’s neck. He wondered if Badger needed help when the grass parted and she appeared. With a hand covered in blood she slid up the hunting mask.

“Three around a fire,” she said.

“Are you hurt?”

Badger shook her head and reclaimed her crossbow. She stuck a foot in the rope stirrup, pulled hard on the reloading strap with both hands, and placed a bolt in the track. Wilson adjusted his hunting mask and followed her through the field and into the forest.

Three men in yellow buckskin squatted around a campfire. Their heads were shaved except for a long topknot. A black tattoo of three entwined circles marked their faces like a spiral of thorns.

A few words about a girl in the tribal dialect made Wilson flush behind his mask. Smoked curled from the speaker’s corn pipe and he laughed with a high-pitched chitter. The man nearest Badger held a water skin and the face of the last tribal had been terribly burned in the past.

Wilson bit his lower lip as a girl sat up from a pile of furs and asked something in the dialect. A nasty bruise turned one eye purple and her red-blonde hair was badly tangled. Drinker and Scarface cursed the girl and Corn Pipe threw a stick. Wilson thought about these animals murdering his father. He jerked up his crossbow and aimed through the sights.

The trigger release clicked on Badger’s crossbow. A bolt with black-and-white fletching smacked through the drinking skin and into Drinker’s chest.

Scarface turned his head and stared into the darkness for half a second, before Wilson shot him in the neck. The metal-pointed bolt ripped through the man’s neck with a spray of blood.

The girl screamed. Corn Pipe let his namesake tumble through his fingers as his comrades twisted on the ground. A pair of demonic faces rose from the tall grass at the edge of the firelight. The desperate tribal fumbled with a holster on his belt.

Wilson threw the knife in his left hand, barely missing Corn Pipe’s head, and sprinted toward the tribal.

The frantic Corn Pipe drew a long-barreled pistol but a bolt from Badger whacked into his bicep. The tribal dropped the weapon as Wilson slammed into his soft midsection.

Both flew into the brush. Wilson thrust his knife into the man’s ribcage, pulled it out, and stabbed again and again.

“I think he’s dead,” said Badger, a minute later.

Wilson stood up. Blood covered his hands and his heart pounded. His fingers shook as he cleaned his knife on the dead man’s trousers.

The girl whimpered under the lean-to. A white-fletched bolt stuck from her left bicep. Wilson came closer and she screamed. He pulled off his hunting mask and held his hands out.

“No hurt you! Help.”

Wilson realized the bolt in her arm had come from his crossbow. He rummaged through the belongings of the dead tribals while Badger looted the bodies. In a leather bag he found a pair of hand-cutters and cloth for a bandage.

“Don’t move.”

He used the cutters to snap the wooden shaft then wrapped the girl’s arm tightly. Her hands were bound with rope and Wilson carefully cut through the hemp fibers. She wore a ripped, red-patterned dress that looked too flimsy even for summer. Wilson draped a blanket around her shoulders.

Badger hissed in pain. Wilson turned to see her grappling with Drinker on the ground. She knocked away Drinker’s hands and sliced him across the throat. When she stood up Wilson saw a blade sticking from the palm of her left hand.

“What happened?”

He touched her arm but Badger stepped away. Blood dripped from her fingers.

“It’s nothing. I got careless.”

He reached for her wrist and this time she didn’t pull back. The sharp point stuck three inches from the back of her hand.

“You’re lucky,” said Wilson. “It’s a short blade and didn’t cut the ligaments. Now wait for a second and don’t move.”

He looked in one of the tribal packs for clean fabric. A yelp came from Badger and Wilson saw her drop the blood-streaked knife on the ground.

“What?” she said. “I wasn’t going to walk around like that.”

Wilson shook his head and sighed. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.

He wrapped Badger’s hand then grabbed the few sacks of gear lying around the campsite. The girl still shivered under the blanket where he had left her.

Wilson knelt beside her. “Will you come with us?”

She looked up with her bruised face and nodded.

Wilson took the girl by the hand and the three moved as quietly as possible through the forest and back across the stream. His night vision took several minutes to return. The girl with her oversized boots constantly stumbled and Wilson put his arm around her waist.

They slid inside the underground guard post as the rain splattered and foamed into a wild downpour. The shelter was warm and dry, but they were squeezed as tight as three cats. Badger’s ribs pressed against Wilson’s belly as she breathed in and out, in and out, and the tribal girl squirmed at his shoulder blades. Wilson rested his head on the dirt floor and thought about nasty nocturnal pests in the garden.

“Something wrong?” asked Badger.

“Ah ... no,” said Wilson. “I’m just a little hot.”

“Get some air, then.”

She brushed her chest against Wilson to move closer to the front opening and that only made it worse.

Wilson sighed and wondered if the tribal girl was hungry. He took a water-skin and piece of dried meat from his rucksack. The girl chewed on the venison happily and Wilson slid forward to join Badger at the tiny window.

“Were we followed?”

Badger shook her head.

Water dripped from the branches long after the storm had blown through. Wilson knew the half-moon should be out––that was the forecast––but the sky was dark with clouds. The girl shivered under her blankets. Wilson handed the girl his woolen cap and she pulled it down to her ears.

She spoke, hesitating over the right words. “Stay in here?”

“Quiet,” whispered Badger. “Dogs.”

Wilson squeezed next to her with his crossbow but couldn’t see anything. Badger pushed his arm to the right and corrected the aim. Her bow clicked and a dog yelped down the slope. She reloaded and Wilson squinted into the dark. All he could make out were a few shadows moving along the trail. He aimed for the center shadow, held his breath, and pulled the trigger. Whether he’d struck it or not, the dark shape vanished.

He twisted onto his back in the tight space and held the crossbow firmly in front of him. He put his foot into the rope stirrup at the end of the bow, extended his leg, and pulled hard on the reload strap. The bowstring and curved prod bent back and locked. Wilson squirmed onto his belly and shoved another bolt on the track.

“They’re following the girl,” murmured Badger. “She’s got a strong smell.” She raised her crossbow and shot a bolt into the yelping dark. “There goes the last one.”

Wilson rubbed his nose. “I’ll take your word for it.”

After a quarter of an hour, an owl hooted three times. Badger cupped her hands and copied the call, then slid out of the shelter with Wilson and the girl.

A team of four hunters led by Badger’s teacher Simpson stood under the dripping branches.

Simpson shook Wilson’s hand. “What’s the status?”

“We found a group of tribals with this prisoner.”

“I see a prisoner, but where are the tribals?”

Wilson pointed to the trees across the clearing. “Dead. We also shot a few dogs not long ago. Not certain if the pack is still around. But right now, this girl and Airman Chen need medical treatment.”

“I’m fine,” said Badger.

“I don’t know anything about medicine,” said Simpson. “If Ensign Wilson wants you looked at, you get looked at.”

AFTER A LONG HIKE through the rain they made it to the steps of the rectory. Wilson knocked and opened the outer door. As they walked through the passage the inner door clanked and hissed open.

Father Reed rubbed his eyes and yawned. “My head just touched the pillow, and now this. Get ready, I’m turning on the lights.”

Wilson and Badger covered their eyes. The tribal girl yelped and shaded hers as the entrance tunnel flashed into brilliant white.

Father Reed looked over the three of them and sucked air through his teeth.

“Come in, come in.”

Wilson squinted through his fingers and followed his teacher into the brightly-lit medical room. He watched Reed press a few buttons at the side of the black examining table.

“I’ve never seen such shaggy cubs,” he said. “Did you forget that singular characteristic of rain––it makes other things wet?”

As his eyes adjusted to the light Wilson saw the state of his female companions. The young girl’s wet hair stuck flat to her face and head. Scratches covered her face and the left side had swollen with a purple and red bruise.

Badger leaned against a wall, her face and braids smeared with mud and pine needles. The rain had soaked her leathers and washed away only a little of the red-black tribal blood that covered her jacket. She protected her left hand in a pocket and rested her right on a knife in her belt. Wilson was exhausted but her eyes were still quick and dark. She watched everything in the room: a display screen, the table, Father Reed, the palm of her right hand, the tribal girl’s boots, all the silver medical tools. She was either nervous as a hare or ready to fight. Maybe both. Wilson realized he had no idea what to tell her about the database and her sickness.

“Ensign!” Reed shouted. “Are you dreaming again or do you have a concussion?”

“No, sir! Neither, sir!”

“Then allow me the pleasure of inquisitive repetition. What happened?”

“We found a gang of tribals with this girl. Not a local group from the look of them. One of my bolts accidentally struck her arm. She has multiple contusions to the left face and minor lacerations. I didn’t have time for a complete assessment.”

Reed waved a hand at the examining table. “Can the girl speak? Get her up here.”

“Yes, I speak,” she said.

The girl stretched out on the table. When Reed replaced the wet blankets with a dry one Wilson saw a pair of bruised and scratched legs.

“What’s her name?” asked Reed as he adjusted the blanket.

“Um ...”

“Minamakitotosimew,” said the girl.

Reed pursed his lips. “Riiight. I think we’ll call you Mina.”

“It is fine, too.”

The priest unwrapped the bloody bandage tied around the girl’s arm. “Wilson, make yourself useful as well as ornamental and get vital signs.”

Wilson pulled wires from the side of the slab. He placed silver discs above both collarbones and wrapped a blue membrane around the girl’s right bicep.

“Turn up the heat element also.”

Wilson pressed a switch on the wall then passed a display to his teacher.

Father Reed touched the screen. He moved and expanded boxes with his fingers. “She wasn’t born here so there’s a limited amount of data. Vital signs are good, but that’s obvious since she walked here. We’ll keep tracking them.” On the screen he passed over minor injuries and highlighted the arm impaled with the crossbow bolt. “Now, Mina––tell me where it hurts the most.”

Wilson led Badger across the room to a white counter with two sinks. He searched through numbered white cabinets and found a large porcelain jug. He plugged the sinks and poured equal amounts of water into each.

“What are you doing?”

Wilson glanced at her. “Making clean water.”

“But that water is clean.”

Wilson slid open a drawer and selected a brown paper packet. “Not clean enough.”

“Clear water is clean water,” said Badger.

“Just trust me.”

“I do.”

“What?”

“Trust you.” She stared at him. Wilson turned red and dropped the packet. He bent over to pick it up.

“Now watch.”

Wilson poured white powder into the left basin. He dipped his fingers in soap and washed his hands on the right side. After drying his hands he soaked them in the cloudy water on the left.

“Make way!” Reed washed in the right basin and sterilized his hands in the left.

“Okay, your turn,” said Wilson.

He unwrapped the bloody cloth around Badger’s hand. The wound through her hand was an inch wide.

“This is going to hurt,” he said.

Wilson dunked her hand in the soapy water. Badger didn’t make a sound, but Wilson felt the hand twitch slightly. He washed and dried Badger’s hand then bandaged it with white cloth.

“Don’t use it for a week and keep it clean and dry. I have some tea that will make it feel better.”