A Girl Called Badger (Valley of the Sleeping Birds) (7 page)

“Mina–”

“In my village there are stories about gods that live in the clouds,” said Mina. “I think I have come to this place. You have warm rooms and hot water springs from the wall. It is heaven.”

“Heaven or not, we’re anything but gods. We’re just normal people.”

“I don’t believe it.”

She touched his cheek and Wilson slid away.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why did you bring me here? You’re so strange, Wilson!”

He tried not to look at her as they returned to the village.

HIS MOTHER THREW a cup that exploded into sharp white pieces against the wall.

“What’s wrong with you?” she yelled.

Wilson shut the door completely. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t play stupid. Cat’s teeth––a perfect girl lands in the village and you kick her away. She was here crying about something you did to her. I can’t understand half of what she says.”

“It’s just a misunderstanding.”

“Don’t waste your time explaining to me. Talk to her.”

Wilson gathered bits of the broken cup and his mother knelt on the floor to help. They finished sweeping up the mess and she hugged him.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Wilson shook his head. “It’s okay.”

“I forget,” she wiped her eyes and laughed. “Even when you’re sixty years old, I’ll probably be throwing cups at you for something.”

“Please don’t worry about it.”

“You’re asking too much! I’m your mother.”

MINA’S ROOM WAS NEXT door. Wilson didn’t go there as his mother had wanted and instead walked through the passage to Armory.

Mast and two smaller boys arm-wrestled at a wooden table. With the massive trunks of his arms he played with them easily, like a fisherman holding up a pair of wriggling trout. When he spotted Wilson Mast slammed the hands of the two boys onto the table.

“Get lost, pups. And don’t lose my tools.”

The boys stumbled out the Armory door.

“Mast.”

“Wilson. Is she bored with you already? Founder’s boots, I would be. Bored with you, that is. If I was a girl. And I’m not.”

“Mast.”

“You priests with your minds on God-knows-what and noses in God-knows-where. Wound up so tight all the time you can’t enjoy the company of a nice home-grown girl.”

“Mast.”

“You always have to find a tribal tart who doesn’t know about your perverted, sick–”

Wilson grabbed the front of Mast’s shirt. “SHUT UP!”

“All right, all right! Let me go.” Mast rubbed his chest. “You’re in a mood.”

“I’m sorry. It’s just ... sometimes you talk too much.”

“I’ve got the strength of a bear and the lungs of a mountain cat.”

“The brain of a goat, too,” said Wilson.

“What can I say? Chicks go mad for this sexy moron.”

“That’s definitely a lie. Let me ask you a question. You and me––we’re friends, right?”

Mast sighed. “I’m your ONLY friend, yes.”

“Be serious. I’m asking for your help.”

“I am serious. And I’ll help you. I saved you from the nasty spiders, didn’t I? Or did my goat-brain imagine that?”

“I could have found a way out.”

Mast laughed, then switched to a serious face. “No, you couldn’t.”

“ANYway. I need help with Mina.”

“The blushing tribal bride? I bet her parents are drooling to meet you. Forks and knives in hand, by the way.”

Wilson put both hands on the table and leaned forward. “Listen––she’s a beautiful girl with a good personality. I like her, but we just don’t match. I can’t explain it.”

“No need to.”

“No?”

“I just told you what’s wrong. You’ve got baggage, Wilson, and you’re too quiet. Normal girls like it loud and dumb, and she sounds normal. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Right. In any case, today she asked who was the big handsome guy always pounding away in the Armory, and I said it was you.”

“The one and only. Continue.”

“So the problem is, she needs someone to look out for her and protect her. The thing with tribal girls …”

“Yes?”

“The thing with tribal girls, the men in their villages never treat them right. They don’t wash at all. They hit them and treat them like slaves. If you talk nice to these girls, bring them food, keep them company, they flip out. You can’t get rid of them. It’s like feeding a starving dog.”

Mast wrinkled his nose.

“Feeding a lovely, starving tribal girl,” said Wilson.

“Sure! I guess you’d know about tribal stuff. But how long do I have to keep up the nice-guy act?”

Wilson shrugged.

“All right,” said Mast. “As a favor to you.”

“She’s in the room next to my mom. Take some lunch to her and make friends.”

Wilson spent the rest of the day between the pages of his books.

THE NEXT DAY HE bribed Robb into following Mast, then spent half of his time in the fields and half with his mother at the workshop curing leather. The foul stench and thick hemp masks they had to wear made conversation difficult, but it was a blessing in Wilson’s opinion.

After the evening meal he found Robb preparing pemmican with his father in a room near the kitchen. Robb’s father stirred a pan of warming deer fat and Robb used a mallet to pound the dried venison and chokeberries into powder. On a nearby table were molded balls of the finished product and small leather pouches.

“Excuse me, sir. I need to speak to Robb.” He pulled the boy into the corridor. “Did you follow them?”

“All day and it was the worst,” said Robb. “Him and that tribal girl were mooning over each other all day. Mooning at lunch, mooning in the pasture, mooning in the trees. I wanted to go blind. I’d sooner eat a spider than watch those lovebirds.”

“That can be arranged.”

“Stop joking! You didn’t have to do it.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“So what about tomorrow like you said?”

“Fine,” said Wilson. “I’ll take the herd up to the pasture. But if anything happens you have to come and get me.”

Robb tilted his head. “If by ‘anything’ you mean ‘a spotted bear’ and by ‘happens’ you mean ‘gives me a cookie,’ then yes, I’ll come to get you.”

The boy dodged Wilson’s hand and scampered back to the room.

IN THE MORNING WILSON prepared a rucksack with dried meat, a loaf of thick bread, an apple, and two water skins. He wrapped the revolver and artifacts in buckskin and put them at the bottom of the sack.

Wool cap pulled over his ears, he walked through a brisk, pre-dawn mist. The northern corral was at the other end of the valley. It was close enough to the village that wolves avoided it but far enough that someone had to stay there during the summer.

A barn and the wooden fence of a corral emerged from the fog, filled with a herd of sheep and goats. A brown nanny with a white star on her forehead bleated at Wilson. On the near side of the fence, a teenage boy in thick clothing rubbed a black and white collie around the neck.

“Morning, Alfie,” said Wilson.

The boy looked up. “Morning, sir. Wait––I didn’t know you had to watch the sheep. Where’s Robb?”

“I’m working for him today. It’s all right, Alfie, I stay here sometimes––it gives me a chance to think. Is everything tip-top?”

“I guess. The bow is in there.” Alfie pointed to a small cabin on the other side of the corral. “I brought extra blankets. You can use ‘em.”

“Great.”

“Bye!” Alfie grabbed a leather bag at his feet and ran into the mist. The dog barked and sped after him.

The fog blackened the gray wood of the cabin with beads of dark moisture. A cast-iron bell and ringer were fastened to the wall next to the door.

Wilson walked inside and took a crossbow and packet of bolts. At the corral he lifted a frayed loop of rope and dragged the gate open. A mottled collection of independent thinkers, the goats wandered out first while the sheep huddled inside the fence.

Wilson put two fingers in his mouth and whistled. The black and white dog came speeding up the path and trotted to the other end of the corral.

“Let’s go, Blackie! Let’s go! Heya! Heya!”

The dog barked at the sheep and helped Wilson push and prod them up the mountain. The walk was long and the mist dampened his face and clothes. As he followed Blackie and the herd up the rocky slopes, the gloomy white shroud in the air slowly thinned to a blue sky.

By the time he found the high meadow the sun was a finger’s width above Old Man but the valley below still a lake of fog. Wilson loaded his crossbow and set it nearby then sat down with his back to a yellow aspen. The sheep wandered through the pasture and Blackie lay in the sun, tongue lolling and eyes half-shut. Wilson tried to follow her example.

But he couldn’t sleep––he kept thinking about Mina. She’d been thrown into his lap just like his mother had said and he’d rejected her. He’d been trained to use facts to make decisions, not to eliminate a choice because it felt wrong. He thought about Badger the last time he’d seen her. The warm hand he’d bandaged, the half-kiss and bloody lip they shared, the magnificent way her eyes changed when they focused on something.

Wilson shifted position. Except she never looked at him that way. Why would care about a simpleton like him? He had years of training left, while the others she could choose from were basically adults. Whatever the situation between them, he had to tell her about the database and the others who’d died. But how?

He woke with the sun overhead and the herd grazing a short distance away. Blackie rested, head on her paws and blinking lazily. Wilson tossed her some meat. After a meal of bread and cheese he inspected the crossbow. He carefully released the catch then cleaned and checked the reload lever, fittings, and bowstring. He reloaded and fitted the bolt back into its track.

What would she think when he told her? What would she say? Blackie didn’t move her head but watched carefully as Wilson stood and walked a circle around the herd.

He lay on the grass and watched dark clouds creep across the sky. Trust me. Her hand in his. I do. Wilson stood and practiced the calming trick for a quarter-hour and felt better.

Out of boredom he tried something different. He faced the sun, closed his eyes, and breathed out. He imagined the crackle of a huge fire and created four new verses:

Breath made of flame

Breath made of spark

Breath made of steam

Speed my heart

His left arm prickled with ice-chills but the rest of his body burned furiously hot. A dull roar vibrated in his head and beads of sweat flashed from his skin. The sweat ran into his eyes and down his back. Blackie stared at him, her jaws open and tongue lolling. Wilson stopped concentrating and the dog trotted over.

“That’s not very useful, is it girl?” He hugged her around the neck. “Unless bears hate the taste of man-sweat.”

Wilson removed his coat and undershirt and laid them in the sun. He relaxed in the shade until some of his energy came back then used a flat stone to sharpen his hunting knife and the small throwing blade.

He hadn’t practiced with the knives for a few days so he ambled across the meadow to a wide-barreled tree. On a flat area at chest height he scratched a crude target and stepped back ten paces. Overhand with the small knife––hit. Underhand––hit. Overhand––hit. After a few minutes, Wilson sheathed it and pulled out the longer hunting knife. Overhand––miss. Underhand––miss. He practiced until the blade hit the target every time.

Blackie barked and sped away through the grass. She stopped halfway through the meadow and listened, ears up. Wilson watched the tree line across the sloping meadow and sniffed the breeze. He moved his crossbow and pack closer to the practice tree and returned to the target. This time he backed up twenty paces. Hunting blade overhand––miss. Hunting blade underhand––miss.

A voice came from behind him. “Step into it!”

Wilson spun around. “Kira!”

Badger walked toward him, trying not to smile. Her black hair split into two long braids and bounced on the shoulders of her tanned leather jacket. Dried, caramel-colored mud covered her trousers from the waist down.

Blackie wagged her tail and jumped at her, and Badger rubbed the dog’s neck.

“Why did you call me that?”

Wilson shifted his feet. “Um ....“

“It’s funny,” said Badger, “Most people don’t remember that name. But you can use it.”

“Whew!” Wilson laughed and pretended to plunge a knife into his chest. Badger giggled and made him feel a few feet taller.

“Why did you walk all the way up here?”

“To talk to you, silly boy.”

“What?”

“The last time I saw you, didn’t you have something to tell me?” She walked over to his hunting knife and snatched it from the ground. “Well?” She backed up twenty paces and threw overhand at the tree. The knife stuck in the center of the target.

“Ah ….”

“I’ve been six days off-map with a bum hand. I come back, walk up a mountain, and all you can say is ‘ah’?” She tugged at the knife and walked back to Wilson.

“I’m glad you’re back,” he said.

Badger threw the knife underhand into the target.

“Safely, that is. Back safely,” said Wilson.

“What do you care about my safety?”

“Well, I care about the safety and health of all–”

“Stop jerking my chain.”

Badger shook her head and stared at him, a smile at the corners of her mouth.

Wilson cleared his throat. “How’s ... uh ... how’s the hand? I don’t see a bandage.”

“It’s okay, just sore.” She moved her fingers. “I lost the bandage in a god-forsaken swamp.”

“Let me see.”

Wilson held her hand and turned it with his fingers. Her skin was soft, apart from the calloused palm.

“Scabbed over nicely,” he said. He sniffed the red line of the wound.

“What are you doing?”

“Smelling for infection.”

“You’re a strange cat, Wilson.” Badger poked him in the chest and slid a hand behind his neck. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“This,” he said, and they kissed.

WILSON LOST TRACK OF time until a drop of rain splashed his cheek. He started to get up for his jacket but Badger held him tight.