Raging Star (7 page)

They’re gonna need you, Saba. Lugh an Emmi. An there’ll be
others too. Many others. Don’t give in to fear. Be strong, an never give up. No matter what happens
.

Them words, his last words, they’ve kept me goin time after time. Given me strength when I was weak. How strange that Mercy should love my father. Her, rooted in the wisdom of the earth. Pa, who looked in vain to the stars fer answers.

I wonder what Mercy would make of Auriel. How they’d git on if they was ever to meet. I’d sure like to talk with them both together.

Auriel. Auriel Tai. The star reader girl with the wolfdog eyes. Grandaughter of a warrior shaman. Namid the Star Dancer, maker of my whiteoak bow. Auriel’s rare. She’s the real thing, not like Pa was. She walks the thin place between the earth an the stars. The place of dreams an light an spirit. What she knows an how she knows it cain’t easily be explained.

If it warn’t fer her, I wouldn’t still be in this life. I was nearly lost to the madness of grief, seein the dead day an night, when Tracker led me to her at the Snake River. Auriel helped me, she healed me, she spurred me on. She gave me hope an purpose. Fer the first time, she made sense of everythin I’d bin through. She was the first one to say the word to me. Destiny.

There are some people, Saba—not many—who have within them the power to change things. Through their actions, they turn the tide of human affairs
.

To turn the tide aginst DeMalo is my destiny. That’s what
she said. She said all of my roads lead to him. An she’s bin proved right over an over.

Turn the tide. I thought I knew how to do that. That the way ahead looked clear. Hit him hard where it hurts. Hit him often. Weaken his grip. But after today—I need to think agin. If only Auriel was here. She wouldn’t even hafta think what I oughta be doin. She’d know becuz she’d read it in the stars.

Well she ain’t here. I need Jack. Right away. But I gotta hold myself in patience till tonight. When I meet him at the Irontree. Together we’ll figger out what to do.

He jest cain’t know. About DeMalo. The blood moon. The endgame.

Painted Rock rises high among the trees. It ain’t one rock but three of ’em, crowded close together. Great old buffaloes of sandstone, their backs hunched aginst the sky. In the middle day brightness their worn flanks blaze pink an gold. All is silent. Nero swoops ahead to herald our comin. The rush of his wings flicks the hush.

Mercy sniffs the air. There’s a hint of cooked meat, rich an deep. Somethin sure smells good, she says.

That means Molly ain’t cookin, I says. Lucky us. It’s the devil’s work when Molly’s at the cookpot.

I cup my hands to my mouth an give our daylight signal. The three-cheep call of a pinewax. I wait a count of two, then I call once more. There’s a cheep in reply from the top of the rock. A small figger appears.

There’s Emmi, I says.

Light glints offa the glass of her looker as she trains it our way. I raise a hand. So does Mercy. A shriek of excitement cracks the silence. Then she disappears.

She’s seen you, I says. Better brace yerself.

Camp’s in the middle of the great rocks. We ride through a wide gap between two of ’em into a big circle space, open to the sky. This is one of the old places. A site of long memory an much use. The ground’s bin worn smooth by many feet. Many hands down the ages have scarred the rock walls. Words an pictures scratched into the stone. By dreamers, idlers, artists an fools.

The Cosmic’s parked up. Slim’s medicine cart, the Cosmic Compendalorium. Fourth of its Ilk, says Slim. Whatever the hell that means. Painted bright yellow, with suns an moons an stars all over, stuffed to the gunnels with potions an cures. The horses bunch together, jostlin noses over heaps of dry grass. There’s Molly’s Prue, a placid mule called Bean, Slim’s carthorse, my own Hermes, eight beasts in all.

Every head turns as we come through the gap. Horses an
people alike. Slim’s at the cookfire, ladlin stew into Ash’s tin. Molly’s sat on a rock, eatin. Nero’s already on the mooch, hoppin around her, beggin fer a share. But no Lugh. No Creed. No Tommo. My gut tightens.

Where are they? I says to Ash.

No sign of ’em yet, she says. When you blew the whistle, I jest legged it. What happened? I heard the blast go off. Loads of smoke. Damn, I wish I’d seen that.

We got chased, I says. They should of bin here by now.

You only jest got here yerself, says Slim. What was the Tonton doin there? I thought yer contact swore they didn’t patrol that far out.

It warn’t no patrol, I says. They was headed fer the Raze. Resettlement. A work party. It all went to hell, I—gawdamnmit, what’s keepin ’em? Not even one back yet.

Simmer down, he says. They probly jest had to take a roundabout route. We’ll debrief once everybody’s back an settled in. Here, where’s yer manners, you savage?

He makes a waddly beeline fer Mercy. We’re used to Slim’s quirks, but to her he must look a odd fish—jobble-bellied in a patchwork frock the size of a tent, grubby eyepatch askew, muttonchops an hair in a mad dandelion frizz. A mangy old rabbit’s foot dangles from a chain on his belt. Young folk today, they got no couth, he says. Wouldn’t know polite if it walked up an slapped their face. We’ll jest hafta make our own innerductions an shame on them. Doctor Salmo Slim,
TPS. That’s Travellatin Physician an Surgeon. Inchantee, ma’am.

I’m Mercy, she says.

She was with the work party, I says. Managed to free herself in the confusion. An, as chance would have it, she’s a friend of the family. That there’s Ash. An that’s Molly.

Mercy’s drawn an exhausted but she manages a smile. Glad to know yuz, she says.

Me an Slim help her down from the pony. Mercy’s a healer, I tell him.

A fellow perfessional, eh? In that case, I am double-delighted to make yer acquaintanceship, Miz Mercy. As he bows, all gallant, over her hand, they take each other’s measure with keen eyes. I’ll have a gander at that ankle if you like, he says.

Thanks, she says. What I’d really like is to get rid of this collar.

Slim peers at it closely. You need a junkjimmy with a cuttin tool fer that, he says. I know one’ll git it off, no trouble. We’ll git you over there aysap.

Ash says, In case yer wonderin, ma’am, yes, that is a dress he’s wearin. It belonged to his late mother.

Don’t let that faze you, though, says Molly. He’s a blue-chip quack, is our Slim.

Mama Big Doe bequeried me three frocks, her wood leg an two left shoes, says Slim. A salt johnny from Pooce bought the leg an a shoe, but her frocks fit me—an as you can see,
I’m a awkward size—so, waste ye not, says I. I’m a fashion free-wheeler an damn the torpedoes.

Mercy! Emmi yells. She comes runnin through the gap with Tracker right behind her. It’s you, it really is! We thought you was dead!

As she rushes at Mercy, Mercy sees Tracker an he sees her an, as her mouth falls open an she’s sayin, Tracker? Can it be? he’s flyin at her, barkin with excitement. Then she’s bein hugged by Emmi an Tracker’s turnin hisself inside out, lickin everywhere with his long sloppy tongue an the whole thing’s a giddy jamboree. Mercy says to me, How on earth did you find him? Why didn’t you say?

Sorry, I fergot. I’ll tell you later, I says.

She’s lookin dazed. Em’s already bolted into a breathless gallop about how Tracker found us, so I go over, sayin, All right, that’s enough, you can tell her later. I peel Emmi away from her.

Slim helps Mercy to a seat by the fire with Ash an Molly. He bustles about, fillin her a tin of food while he clackets on in his usual cheerful way.

What took you so long? Emmi clings to me. Her legs clamp my waist. Her skinny arms bindweed my neck. Where’s Lugh? Where’s the boys? I bin watchin ferever.

Hey hey, yer stranglin me, I says. Git down, yer too big.

She twines me even tighter. Grabs my face in her grubby hands. Worry clouds her blue-sky eyes. I was worried an
worried somethin bad would happen to you. An it did, she says. The Tonton came. Ash said. What happened? Where’s Lugh an Tommo?

They’re on their way, I says. Now lemme go. On yer feet.

She slides down reluctantly. Her hands might be dirty but fer once she’s washed her face. In fact, she’s clean an neat. Positively respectable. Her wayward brown hair’s in a plait. Her shirt’s tucked in. Her britches buttoned. She’s even laced her boots. This is Molly’s doin. Left to herself, Em’s a scarecrow of a girl.

She stands with arms crossed, all sulky chin an scrimped up mouth. What did I do now? she says.

Don’t gimme that mardy face, I says. Listen, Em, yer a Free Hawk now. You cain’t go screamin around like you done jest now, like some little kid. I told you before.

But I—

Who’s on lookout?

Me, she says.

So what’re you doin here? I says.

She heaves a sigh. Well, pardon me fer bein glad you ain’t dead, she says.

Git back there this second, go on, I says.

Saba? says Slim. There’s fruit bat gumbo in the pot.

I thought somethin smelled good. Lugh’s voice comes from the entranceway. I whirl around. He’s all in one piece. His smile stretches ear to ear as he opens his arms wide. Anybody miss me? he says.

I did, I did! Emmi dashes at him, leaps at him. He twirls her in a circle. You bum! she cries. I bin worried sick. Did you see Tommo? Creed?

What? They ain’t here yet? Sorry I bin so long, he says to me. I had to cut out wide to lose them Tonton. They took some shakin.

What did I tell you? says Slim.

Look who Saba found. It’s Mercy, Emmi says.

What? Then Lugh’s shakin Mercy’s hand, sayin, I sure wanna know how this came about. It’s bin a long time, ma’am.

You must be starvin, son, says Slim. Everybody come an eat.

That’s it fer Em goin back on watch. I’d hafta drag her there by her pigtail. An, after all, it’s daylight. We crowd around Slim’s cookpot an he loads our tins. Tracker an Nero make fast work of a stringy squirrel that he tosses their way. They keep a wary eye on him, anxious not to splat him with guts. Last time they did, he banished ’em from the fire fer two chilly nights. We’re jest gittin stuck into our meal an all wantin to ask Mercy this or tell her that, when Tommo pitches up at last. He tells the same tale as Lugh. He had to go off his set course to lose his pursuers. He falls on the food like a jackal.

Then a short while later, Creed arrives. He’s bare chested. His precious frock coat’s folded, tucked unner one arm. The other arm’s streaked with dried blood. There’s a arrow stuck in his shoulder.

Creed lounges aginst a boulder while Molly stitches his wound with a fine bone needle an gut thread. He looks like some spirit of nature. Wild curly hair, silver rings in his ears, tattooed waist to neck with twined vines an serpents.

Molly bends her head to her work. As always, there’s a scarf tied over her long blonde curls. Pulled low on her forehead to hide her brand. That loathsome letter. The lie that the Tonton seared in her skin. W. W fer whore. But it don’t mar her beauty. Nuthin could. A face to make angels weep fer joy. That’s what Ike used to say of Molly. An lips that detoured many a man to her Storm Belt junkshack tavern. In the hope that she’d serve them a smile with their drink.

She ain’t smilin now. She’s got her Creed look on. It says, if he does it agin, if he declares his love fer me in front of everybody I’ll slap his head from his neck. But Creed’s so punch drunk in love with her, he cain’t seem to stop hisself. He’s only got the one tactic. Open desperation. He must think she’ll be flattered or take pity on him an eventually give in. As if a delicious woman like her would ever go fer a hobbledy boy like him. Molly’s used to swattin off lust-lorn loobies from her tavern days, but Creed’s a whole new world of aggravation.

I go over to crouch beside them. Give her some relief. I says, With all them tattoos, I’m surprised you can see what
yer doin. How deep did the arrow go?

Not very, she says. Surprise surprise, he’s makin out it’s worse than it is.

Creed says, Anythin to keep you close to me, darlin.

I ain’t yer darlin, she says.

Cut it out, Creed, I says.