So she simply nodded at him and passed by, skirts in hand. Kept on climbing, ’til at last she found her way to the small, smokeless fire ’round which the others sat gathered.
That ill-cobbled rock-creature — “Grandma,” Yancey Kloves called her, a Hell-bound ghost recalled only momentarily from God’s judgement by her feud with Lady Rainbow — squatted motionless at the cave’s back like some ancient idol. Across from her, the heathen Chinee witch-girl sat blanket-wrapped and shivering, with only one slant eye peeping out from under a snowy fall of hair; an exhausted-looking Missus Kloves sat between with Gabe, trying unsuccessfully to soothe him, while he fussed and wriggled.
Doesn’t know a thing about babies
, Sophy found herself thinking, scornfully. And before she could reconsider, her arms were already out, fingers on one hand snapping impatiently. “Give him me,” she heard herself tell Missus Kloves. “You change him already?”
“Half-hour back.”
“Then he’s hungry, so pass him over.” At the other woman’s look: “Really, ma’am, just what is it you think I’m likely to do to him, exactly? He’s still my son, no matter his —
state
, and unless there’s something going on here I’m not privy to,
you
won’t be able to feed him. He can’t even take mash, as yet.”
Still, Missus Kloves hesitated. In the end, it was that Apache man-woman, The Night Has Passed — half-clad and rude in her breeches and shirtless vest, yet whose restless energy reminded Sophy, in a strange way, of Mesach himself — who leaned in and plucked Gabe from her, to plop him down into Sophy’s grasp. “She talks sense, dead-speaker — for the first time in a full day and night, as well. I would listen, if only so we may return to what
we
speak of.”
“Grandma” nodded, the move itself one dusty grunt, like the puff from a smallish rockslide, then shot a question in that shirr-clicking tongue of hers Missus Kloves’ way. Who answered, in English, “Sure as I can be, given the limits of this particular method. And speaking of limits . . .” Here she gave another quick, furtive glance Sophy’s way, before continuing: “. . . since not all of us have the — knack — I do for understanding you, Spinner, if Missus Love’s going to sit in, then I’m sure she’d take it as a courtesy if you tried your best to use our own tongue.”
“We would have no need for
courtesy
at all,” Songbird muttered, “could she simply surpass her own blind fear of the
ch’i
’s effects, and allow us one simple translation spell.”
Yiska — that was the other way her name might be said, Sophy now remembered — clicked tongue against teeth, warningly. “
Enough
, White Shell Girl. The salt-widow is our guest.”
Petulant as the child she sometimes still looked like, Songbird complained: “Not
my
guest, or my hearth. Not
my
camp.”
“Not if you do not wish it so. But seeing you have nowhere else to go, in safety — it would please me greatly, if you would stay.”
Anyone else might have tried to touch her, then — but Yiska just stood there, allowing the Chinese witch to settle back, almost too slowly to be observed, against the shelter of one long leg. Once again, Sophy was struck by a reminder of Mesach, who had often chosen to deal with dissent the same way: step back and let the Spirit work on them how it might, leaving room for them to approach him again at their own pace. For
they came, every one whose heart stirred him up, and every one whom his spirit made willing, and they brought the LORD’s offering to the work of the tabernacle of the congregation, and for all his service. . . .
Exodus,
35:21.
“You can just go on and call me Missus Love, Miss Yiska, if you want,” Sophy surprised herself once more by offering, as she felt Gabe latch on, swaddled snugly beneath the tail of her shawl. “Or . . .
if you wish, even, by my given name, Sophronia.”
At this, the squaw’s already narrow eyes slitted further. “An interesting offer,” she said, finally, “from the once-wife of a blackrobe
bilagaana
.”
“My Mesach was a preacher, ma’am, not a priest. Our Church has no patience for Papistry.”
From the shadows, “Grandma” spoke once more, and in response, Yiska peered closer at Sophy; Sophy sat still and straight, allowing it.
“So, then,” Yiska said, at last. “I see that the Spinner is right: You are like me, marked for vision from the earth itself, and elsewhere. Bound to the
diyí
— what is the
bilagaana
word I want?” she demanded, of Missus Kloves, who shook her head.
“‘Spirits’?” she suggested. Then, seeing Sophy grimace, at the very thought: “‘Angels,’ then; caretakers of creation, powers and principalities. The Holy Ghost.”
“
Ohé
,” Yiska said, approvingly. “You are bound to this Ghost by choice, sureness of belief, and thus it gives you protection from
Hataalii
, for good and bad. But it is caution you feel, respect, not fear. And such feeling is not a tool only, to take up or put away, like bow or spear.” Though Yiska’s eyes stayed intent on hers, somehow Sophy could tell that the words seemed meant for all to hear: a reproof for Songbird, a reminder to Yancey. And something else entirely — perhaps even both — for that rumbling
thing
whose insights she praised. “Guided, we may command, but only by obeying; we speak truth, but only having listened. Do you see?”
Oh, you
are
like him. He never cared much to lead for its own sake, either — only that people understood him true, saw what
he
saw.
And hadn’t that been
why
people followed him in the first place? Wasn’t that why Yiska’s own men shed their blood so gladly, for her? Because only one who swore service to something beyond themselves could be worth serving, in turn?
Her eyes blurred. This time, Yiska did reach out, squeezing her arm softly as she swiped at them, reassuringly. To Missus Kloves, she said: “Tell Sophy Love your dream, dead-speaker.”
Missus Kloves — Yancey — let her eyes drift shut. “Last few nights, I’ve been too wrung out studying on the Underneath to dream much of anything else at all,” she began. “But when I lay down this evening, I finally dreamed of Edward Morrow, who told me things have changed. That his boss, Pinkerton, has found himself a dark new ally — ”
“ — that Enemy of all of ours? I know.” A general look of startlement whipped her way, from everywhere at once. “It came to me in the desert just now wearing Chess Pargeter’s skin, told me it’d saved Bewelcome from Lady Rainbow’s might, supposedly on my account, and was off to challenge her one on one, with Pinkerton for backup. Said this might be the last chance any of us had to see justice done.”
Yancey stared. “But — why come out here to tell us personally, if he knew Ed would tell me — ?” She stopped, then, answering her own question: “Because he knew Ed hadn’t reached me yet, ’course; wanted to make
sure
we knew in time to act, if we could.”
“What profit to him, though, if we do act?” Songbird asked. “Or cost, if we don’t? Does he look to join with us, or use us? For we are toys to them, these gods — insects to be flicked away, if noticed.” Glancing at Sophy: “Most of all, why tell
you
?”
Sophy girded herself, not allowing her own eyes to flick back down to Gabe, now thankfully asleep, toothless mouth yet a-work on her breast. “He knew I was in despair,” she told them, unhesitating. “That I had it in mind to cut and run, just leave Gabe here with you, to live or die with those most like him. That I was putting my own words in the Lord’s mouth, weak and prideful, and trying to tell myself what I dreamt on was His will, just because
I
wanted it so.”
“And . . . he lied to you further? Tried to trick you, as he did your dead man?”
“No, he told me the truth. I don’t know why; don’t even know how I know he
wasn’t
lying, when he did. I believed him, is all. I think he wants us there. That he’s counting on it.”
Songbird snorted. Yiska opened her mouth, then closed it, stumped. Above them, Grandma grated out something more, her crushed-rock voice bruising the air. Yancey blinked up at her, then translated for Sophy.
“She says it pleases the Enemy to dangle what you most want before you, so your own desires drive you into folly. Yet hearing this, she finds she believes you as well, much as she wants not to.” Listening again: “Our task here’s only half done, because we’ve been counting on Chess Pargeter’s ghost to pull himself up single-handed . . .
save himself, and us as well. Since the Enemy needs us on that battleground, though, we need to make sure that happens.” Yancey took a deep breath as Grandma finished. “Meet Chess halfway, and bring him out ourselves.”
“How’re you supposed to do that, Missus Kloves? You’ve got but two hexes to draw on, one a ghost — no offence, ma’am,” Sophy offered, to “Grandma,” who nodded again. “ — and the three of us, you, me and Yiska here, whatever we are. Seems unlikely to me it’s
God
he means for us to call upon, to raise those odds, but I can tell you this: I won’t make heathen sacrifice, no matter if the sky itself begins to fall. So . . .”
“Grandma” leaned forward into this pause, horridly quick for all her decaying bulk, and spoke again, faster, clearer. Yancey listened.
“There’s another hex in the mix, she points out,” the girl told Sophy, at last. “And one more thing we could try, too . . . but only with your help.”
This time, it was her eyes which went to Gabe’s hidden form. And understanding fell at last on Sophy Love, like the proverbial tonne of rocks.
Unprompted, she put one hand to Gabe’s dear, slack face, felt him relax beneath her too-long-withheld touch with a tiny, relieved sigh. Then her eyes blurred again, and she bent over him, touching his forehead to her own.
My boy,
she thought.
My son, my Mesach’s son; Lord, let this cup pass from me.
But only if it be Your will.
“He’s a baby, barely knows his own name. He . . . won’t understand one thing about what you want.”
“No.” Inexorable, despite this agreement: “But that’s where
you
come in.”
“Drawing upon the secret tongue shared only by mothers and infants?” Sophy shook her head. “Can we not at least wait ’til morning? Let him sleep?”
“Well, time’s tight, ma’am, as you yourself just pointed out; we don’t dare wait, really. Also — the Spinner says this should be done at night to have the best chance of working; the Crack gets wider in the dark, apparently, or some such. So, I’m sorry, more than you can know. But . . . no.”
Sophy cradled Gabe, rocking him quietly, while she collected herself. “Will it hurt him?” she finally asked.
“Truth? I’ve no idea,” said Yancey. “How could I? I’ve never tried anything like this before. You?”
While Sophy couldn’t quite bring herself to laugh, she did manage a snort, at the absurdity. “Hardly.” Then, shifting toward Yancey so they sat face to face on the cavern floor, with Gabriel sweetly asleep on Sophy’s lap between them, she looked down at him, and sighed. “Very well. Let me wake him, first.”
Gently, she eased him up in her arms ’til she could place her head beside his, coo softly in his ear, sleek his cheek with hers. He came awake slowly, goggle-blinking and dazed, as though trying to decide whether he was hungry or scared. Though still too young to smile a-purpose, his face relaxed at his mother’s sound and smell. He yawned, widely.
Yancey, too, seemed unable to resist smiling down at him — but then placed one hand over his head, resting thumb and forefinger on both soft temples. As Gabe looked ’round in vague suspicion, she lifted the other to Sophy’s forehead, pausing at the last instant, a question in her eyes. Sophy closed her own and nodded once, short and sharp. She felt Yancey’s palm settle over her brow; it was surprisingly cool, and a little damp.
Long moments passed. The clamp of fear in her throat and chest eased off, though what replaced it was, illogically enough, irritation rather than relief. “Well?” Sophy demanded.
“I’m
trying
,” said Yancey, equally impatient. “For yourself, Missus Love, you might try not to — ” She stopped, let out a breath. “No. I can’t tell you not to be afraid, when I am. Just . . . try not to be afraid of
me
.”
Sophy opened her eyes and stared, so incredulous the girl coloured a little. Then asked, simply: “
How?
”
“Because — I’ll swear you on a stack of Bibles, if we both survive and your boy likewise, then I’ll go to Bewelcome after and put myself in your hands for you to execute, as a cold-blooded murderess.” Nodding stiffly, as Sophy’s jaw dropped: “Yes, I mean it. Bad doesn’t wipe out bad, so I should answer for what I’ve done.”
“My Mesach being the bad, I suppose?”
“You’ll never believe me on that, I fear, but he was bad enough, to me. It doesn’t matter, though. I mean it, all the same.”
“Easily said. But how can I know?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Sophy stared back, then closed her eyes again, with a huff. Loosened all the muscles she could by force of will alone, and prayed:
Lord God, help me know and do what is right. . . . Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name; Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be —
There was no warning, and no transition. Simply the sudden feel of every voice in some million-strong choir broken at once into song, a single overwhelming note in twelve octaves, blotting out everything but pure, vibrating power. Even Gabe’s sudden shriek of fear was only another note in that great song, mirrored by Sophy’s own terror — and yes, she knew it now for nothing but truth, Yancey’s as well. Three lives instantly laid open, decades of memory pouring torrential into each other, and all channelled through Gabriel’s terrified conduit.
Oh Lord, Gabriel!
In an instant, the fear she felt was only for him. It made her brace herself, master the flood, wrap Gabriel’s mind in hers; abandon all words and the ideas attached to them, shuck herself of everything pure expressions of love, conviction, protection.
I’m here
, she sent, unable to think of anything else to “tell” him.
Always. Mama is always here.