A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (6 page)

Wilson opened the door. He cursed and immediately stumbled backwards, kicking up dust as he fell.

On a desk stared a human skull, yellow and on its side like a dropped toy. Other bones were scattered on the desk and around the small office.

Wilson closed his eyes and exhaled. He imagined a sudden plunge into a freezing lake and whispered four phrases:

Breath made of ice

Breath made of water

Breath made of fog

Calm my heart

It was something Father Reed had taught him to calm his heart and focus his energy. The priest had called it a “trick”, because your mind was learning to “trick” the body’s normal reactions.

Wilson’s left arm was as cold as ice––a side-effect. He flexed his fingers and stood up with the flickering lantern.

“Thank founder you didn’t go out.”

On the desk, assorted bones of the arm surrounded the skull: radius, ulna, humerus. A pelvic bone, vertebrae, and ribs had tumbled into a chair behind the desk. Mixed in with papers on the floor were the remaining bones, scraps of dirty fabric, and an old handgun.

Wilson picked up the weapon carefully, like he would a dead rat. The firearm was a deep blue-black color with a rotating cylinder in the middle, and with barrel the length of his hand. Wilson had seen a couple of tribal firearms up close and in books but nothing like this. He stuck it in a pocket of his jacket.

In the midst of the bones on the desk were several tiny objects mottled yellow and white in color. One was an irregular cylinder less than eight inches long, slightly flattened in the middle, with thread-like wires connected to a small sphere several feet away. Several miniature tubes with threads were also scattered near the skull.

Wilson noticed a hole in the temporal bone of the skull and a larger hole in the parietal bone at the back. The yellowed grid of paper on the desk was stained black and gray and matched a spray of dots on the wall. Under the skull lay a thin journal. Wilson pushed the skull away with his knife and handled the book with the tips of his fingers. Someone had written “Mike Wong” in block letters on the stained cover. Most of the pages were blank and the rest too faint to read. Wilson put the journal in his pocket along with the white objects.

A thump came from across the room. He turned to see a pair of fist-sized spiders meander out of the shadows.

“Time to go!”

Wilson grabbed his lantern and sprinted from the office. He kicked at a spider lounging on a desk and another next to the door. At the access ladder he put his back to the wall and tried to calm his beating heart with the trick. He was supposed to keep his mind blank but couldn’t shake the beady eyes and hairy black legs of those ungodly monstrosities. He gave up and simply watched the corridor.

It could have been minutes or half an hour. A squeal of metal came from the access shaft and Mast’s voice boomed down.

“Wilson! Stop playing with yourself and climb up!”

HE TESTED THE HEATING systems in Office by taking a shower. Back at the rectory he passed Mina’s room and heard quiet voices. He changed from his jumpsuit into a blue hemp shirt and dark trousers then spread the strange items on his bed.

The barrel of the black revolver was inscribed with “S&W.357 MAGNUM” and “SMITH & WESSON.” Wilson pushed out the cylinder with his thumb and removed the brass rounds with a fingernail. An empty round slid out the easiest. The other five required more delicate prying. Lead tips of gray and white rounded off the heavier rounds.

The rules required him to turn over any artifacts––Reed constantly reminded everyone that old machines were dangerous until properly examined. Wilson remembered the bald-faced lie about Badger’s sickness. He put the pistol in a bag made of purple-dyed hemp and hid it behind his books. The “Kittens!” calendar he slid inside a large volume on leatherworking.

Wilson opened the journal belonging to “Mike Wong” and inhaled the smell of musty old pages. Even held under the bright panel of his desk light the handwriting was still too faint. He looked through the founder’s registry on his shelf––a yellowed ledger with crude string binding––and no “Mike Wong” was listed.

Wilson returned to the journal. As he flipped idly through the pages a delicate square of paper fell to the floor. He smoothed it flat on his desk.

U.S. Accuses China on Virus; “Non-War” Continues Washington, D.C. –– As the H1N2 betavirus rampages through the population centers of the world, President Susan Ford has accused China of weaponizing the virus and releasing it on American soil. The President and State Department officials presented evidence on 36 Chinese citizens affiliated with the PLA in major American metropolitan areas during the first outbreaks. These individuals allegedly played the role of “Typhoid Mary” by spreading the betavirus at convention centers and large population groupings. The Chinese bodies were not found until two weeks after the first outbreak, allegedly hidden in trunks of abandoned cars and even in rented apartments in some cases. The President has declined to give details, but the massive riots in urban centers, deaths in local police forces, and lack of proper training meant the intelligence was not followed up for over a week. Negotiation of the issue is hampered by no official channels between the U.S. and China, since the Kaosiung nuclear disaster and invasion of Taiwan last month. The European State has urged calm and continues attempts to bring both the American and Chinese forces to the negotiating table. President Ford continues to state emphatically that until the PLA leaves Taiwanese soil, no negotiations are possible.

Senate Majority Leader John Allen (R-New York) has been rallying for a declaration of war for over a week. “The ‘mistake’ at Kaosiung was a deliberate murder of three million people,” he stated. “The mission of the PLA is not to help Taiwan, but to crush it. We have a duty as Americans to protect freedom and democracy in Taiwan. If China started this pandemic that’s a deliberate act of war. If this isn’t an aggressive attack on the people of our nation, then what is?”

House Speaker Dan Leonard (D-Ohio) released a statement: “Under no circumstances, including these unsubstantiated allegations from the President, can we involve ourselves in another overseas conflict. Our soldiers are spread to the breaking point in Pakistan and with assisting municipalities around the nation. The urban centers are already in need of more troops. Thirty percent are already suffering. We have to re-prioritize and find a cure for this disaster.”

The hatch clanked out in the hallway and Wilson hid everything under his blanket. Father Reed appeared, his face flushed from a walk or whatever exercise he’d been doing.

“Ensign! Fix the problem?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you’re the one crawling down there and not me,” said Reed. “You were off the locator.”

“It’s not something I want to do again. What happened to the pump?”

Reed sighed. “Who can tell? I’ve looked at the reference diagrams. It was possibly an exchanger safety switch or air circulation kick-off, and could even be related to the faulty meteorological data. But leave these matters to an old man. You have a young female matter waiting.”

MINA SAT ON THE edge of the recovery bed. She wore a pale hemp blouse and yellow floor-length skirt. Instead of the tangled mess of hair and mud that Wilson remembered, her face was framed with bright, strawberry-blonde curls. Apart from the large bruises, swollen left eye, and a few scratches she looked healthy and fit. Wilson knew his first impression had been wrong and she looked about his age. Mina rubbed her bare knees and Wilson realized he’d stared too long. He flushed and dug fingernails into his palms.

“Hello, Mina.”

She smiled. “Good morning!”

“So you speak English?”

Her good right eye opened wide. “Speak what?”

“La Anglan.”

“Ah,” Mina smiled. “All my village speaks Anglan.”

“Why’s that?”

“Teacher says we must.”

The tribes around Station used pidgin English for trading. “Teacher” could be anyone from a practical merchant to a rabid cannibal with an eccentric taste. In any case, the village could have other books and maybe even medical texts.

 Mina waved in his face and Wilson snapped to the present.

“Sorry!”

“Wilson, how do you komprenmia lingvo and not the others?”

“Oh, I have to study everything. It’s what I do. Other people hunt or plant fields, and I study. Books, language, machines––you name it and I have to know something about it. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Still mucho dolore.” She pressed her stomach. “Please don’t talk about ...”

“I’m sorry. Do you want a drink?”

He went to the treatment room and poured a cup of water from the dispenser, then mixed it with powder from a paper envelope.

Mina drank all of it quickly. Wilson watched a bead of water roll from the corner of her mouth to the neck of her collar.

“Where are you from?”

“From a village, illamo David. Mucho walking.”

“How far away, do you think?”

“We stop many times, but I think five days.”

She turned the cup in her hands over and over.

“I walked in forest with mother and friends. Monstroja ... kill them, take me away.”

The silence that followed made Wilson uncomfortable. He decided they both needed some fresh air.

“Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat.”

Mina slipped on a pair of sandals while Wilson grabbed an extra wool coat. He put it around her shoulders and they walked out of the rectory tunnel into a fine mist of rain. Sunlight broke through the clouds and the drops shone like falling streams of white flour. Two older women smiled and waved at Wilson. A farmer greeted him with a nod and sloshed quickly through the mud.

Mina hopped over a puddle. “Station has mucho rain. Where are houses?”

“We live underground.”

“Like a melo? That’s crazy!”

“Yes, like a badger.”

Mina looked at his face. “What is wrong?”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing.”

A pair of hunters ran past with crossbows on their backs.

“Wilson. Why don’t you have rifles?”

“We do have rifles, but can’t use them near the valley. The noise travels too far and we don’t like visitors.”

He led Mina down steps to another tunnel and cracked open a heavy door to a storm of chatter and the clink of dishes. People of all ages filled the cafeteria for the midday meal. When Mina and Wilson walked inside the noise dropped off.

Wilson raised his voice. “Excuse me, everyone! Please say hello to our new guest, Mina.”

The villagers murmured greetings. Many came to say a few words or to give Mina a hug. Wilson’s cheeks and ears burned hot the entire time but he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. He could guess what everyone thought and talked about back at the tables with their heads together. Wilson found a tribal girl so soon! Where did she get that black eye? He’s not that kind of boy is he? She looks so pretty!

At last Robb’s father handed them trays with meals and guided them to a table. Mina smacked her lips while eating the stew and bread.

“Please,” said Wilson. “Like this.” He took a spoonful and chewed with his mouth closed.

“Loco,” said Mina, but imitated Wilson. “What’s in the soup?”

“Bear.”

Mina’s good eye opened wide. She ate her stew quietly and stared at each villager in the room.

WILSON SPENT HIS FREE time over the next few days showing her around the underground complex and coaching her speech. They wandered through the farmlands and he talked about Station, the old times, and the mountains that surrounded the valley. He didn’t mind spending time with Mina and it kept his mind off Badger and other unsolvable topics. She was a distraction, the breeze before a thunderstorm.

But when he was alone his mind wandered out of control. Somewhere in the cold forest Badger could be bleeding from bullet fragments or a tribal axe. After the evening meal Wilson read books in the rectory’s library until his eyes glazed over. In addition to his morning exercises he began an evening workout to exhaust his body in time for sleep.

He studied the white objects for hours but they remained inscrutable.

On the fourth day since Badger had left he took Mina for a walk on the western slopes. They stopped to rest in the shelter of a large tree. Through the tops of pine trees the entire valley spread below. Fenced gardens and small wooden buildings circled the central hub of underground entrances. Miniature farmers peppered the wide fields of corn and beans to the south and hemp fields in the west.

Entire generations of villagers lived, loved, and worked their entire lives without traveling more than a few kilometers from Station, but now Wilson watched it with a sour feeling in his belly. The only person he’d ever found interesting was somewhere off-map. Even if she returned, how long would she live?

 Mina touched his arm. Her bruises had subtly changed to green and tan and the swelling had gone down.

“What’s this scar? Were you hurt?”

Wilson massaged his temples and tried to rub away a headache. “It’s from name-giving. Everyone in Station has the scar.”

“Why?”

“It’s part of a ceremony when we turn twelve and get our real names.”

“Did it hurt?”

“I don’t remember. I was asleep the entire time.”

“Oh.” She touched her little finger to the scar. “It looks painful. I think it’s crazy to mark a beautiful arm like that.”

“It’s not because we want to––anyone who was born here or joins the village needs the ceremony. Most people are very superstitious about it and think the scars or what’s under them keep us healthy.”

“My people are very sick sometimes but we do not cut our body. That’s the way of monstroja. They mark their horrible faces with three open circles.” She took a deep breath. “I wish I could forget.”

“I’m sorry, Mina.”

She shifted closer and pressed her shoulder to Wilson’s. He felt the warmth of her body through the thin yellow dress.