“Tomato and onion and green pepper,” agreed Arakny. “And bread made from corn, and melon and beans and roast lamb. And peaches and apricots and apples. And honey from the hive. And milk and cheese from the goats. Bounty. In the autumn we celebrate bounty. It was a habit of one of our groups long ago, and the others of us found it appropriate.”
The rain dancers left the circle, and others entered, these bearing bundles of wooden hoops that they laid in piles around themselves and took up one by one as they danced, interlacing them with their arms and legs to make wings, becoming birds; to make manes and heavy legs, becoming animals. Olly watched in fascination as they danced, never missing a beat of the drums, the hoops spinning, shifting, interlocking, working up from legs onto arms, from arms onto hands, now all the hoops joined together to form huge lacy spheres around each dancer, and out of these large openwork eggs the dancers hatched, feet first, ending with the spheres carried triumphantly above them.
“They have danced creation, the hatching of life, the final mending of the earth,” whispered Arakny. “The hoops are symbolic of the cycles of life, birth and death joined, each thing dependent upon other things, all existence woven together.”
Other dancers entered the circle. The drummers and singers went on tirelessly. Olly ate everything on her trencher and would have gone for more if she had not feared to appear greedy. She wanted to tell Abasio about the library, about what she’d learned, but it did not seem appropriate with so many people about.
Instead she whispered to him, “I need to talk to you. As soon as we can politely leave, let’s go.”
He nodded, peering at her face. “What?”
“I’ll tell you down at the wagon.”
He nodded again. Someone came with a jug and a basket of gourd cups. They drank the beverage offered, water and honey and fruit juices mixed together.
“No beer?” asked Abasio.
“We cannot waste our time so,” Arakny replied, “or our grain. Water is our drink, usually. Or goat’s milk. Though sometimes the cider from our apples turns, you know, becoming something more. We drink that, in order not to waste it.” She grinned at them impishly.
It had grown dark; only the firelight illuminated the dancers, giving them an otherworldly look, half fire-colored, half dark, reduced to outlines and flat surfaces, demonic, perhaps, though they were undoubtedly good demons.
Abasio squeezed Olly’s hand, the gesture saying he was preparing to leave. “Where will I find …” he asked, rising.
Arakny looked up at him. “Over there.” She nodded across the fire. “The compost house is behind the crowd over there, beyond those two trees.”
“We’ll leave when I get back, in just a moment,” he murmured to Olly, turning to stride off around the circle.
She rose, fidgeting. She should get back to the wagon, put things away, be ready to leave early in the morning. As soon as it was light!
A chorus of joyful cries came from the watchers.
“Look!” cried Arakny, echoing the others. “Here come the bison dancers, the elk dancers! Oh, look!”
New dancers had entered the circle, men wearing antlers, men wearing bulky headdresses with carved horns. They circled and stamped, they spiraled, shaking their feathered lances. The people cried encouragement as the drums quickened and a new song was sung.
“We’ve worked so hard on this!” said Arakny, tears in her eyes. “It’s taken so many years.”
Alert for Abasio’s return, Olly detected a restless movement among the watchers across the circle, a heaving, as though they had been disturbed. The fire leaped up, and she caught a momentary glimpse of a huge figure there, briefly lit, then lost in darkness once more.
“Who was that?” she asked Arakny.
“Who? Someone over there?” The woman peered, wiping at her eyes with her sleeve. “I don’t see anyone except people from town.”
“Someone very tall, very big.”
“A stilt dancer from the Rabbit Society, probably. They sometimes end the evening with clowning.” She turned her attention back to the dancers, leaving Olly to stare into the darkness, disturbed by what she had seen, though uncertain as to why.
“Those strange people who entered through the gate this morning. Those two walkers,” Olly murmured. “Did they go on?”
“South,” said Arakny. “Oh, yes. Women from town watched them go.”
“How about people coming in? Did anybody else remarkable come in today?”
Arakny turned toward her, giving her a curious look. “I don’t know. I was told about the two walkers. I was told about you. No one else was mentioned to me.”
“Gangers? From one of the cities up north?”
“No one said. What’s the trouble, Olly Longaster?”
“I think I’ll go find Sonny.”
“We’ll go together,” the woman said, rising, her forehead furrowed.
They moved to the rear of the circle of watchers and worked their way around the outside in the direction Abasio had gone, stumbling a little in the shadows. As they approached the far side of the crowd, almost opposite where they’d been sitting, they found much of the audience standing in small agitated groups, muttering to one another rather than watching the dancers.
Arakny seized one mutterer by the arm and demanded, “What’s happened?”
A confused babble answered her.
“Stop!” she commanded. “One of you—what’s happened here?”
The short woman she was holding by the arm answered: “Three men, Arakny. Three men from outside, gangers by the looks of them. They spotted this other visitor walking over toward the compost house, and they grabbed him. Some of the men objected, and they got knocked on their heads. Look over there.” She pointed through the milling bodies to a place where several costumed men lay, surrounded by others.
“What did they look like?” Olly demanded. “The three gangers?”
“Why, as to that—I don’t know. I didn’t see it. Ask Lithel, she saw it. She saw the whole thing.”
Olly recognized Lithel, the woman who had talked to them at the gate that morning, the one who had been so sympathetic to Abasio, who was now busy bandaging one of the fallen.
She answered Arakny’s question in a rapid mutter. “One of them was bald, with a beard and a hammer. It was the hammer did this damage.” She was sponging away the blood that seeped down the man’s face. “One wore whips at his belt. He told the others what to do. The other of the three was a giant, hairy as a bison, and he stank.”
“Where did they go?” cried Olly, recognizing the description as the same three who had stopped Cermit’s wagon in Whitherby.
“They went down the hill,” the woman replied. “Our men were objecting, and the little man was assuring us they would not kill him until they were in manland once more.”
“What does she mean?” Olly seized Arakny by the arm “Kill him? What does she mean?”
“Our treaty with manland forbids gangers killing one another in our territory,” the woman answered. “It does not forbid their taking your—husband back to manland and killing him there.”
CHAPTER 11
“T hey will kill him there.” At first the words were meaningless to Olly; then they made dreadful sense. She stood briefly in paralyzed dismay, then spun around and ran frantically toward the sandy road.
“Wait,” Arakny called, trotting after her. “Wait, Olly Longaster! Where are you going?”
“Back to the wagon!” Olly cried.
“You can’t go after them! You’ll get yourself killed!”
“I know,” breathed Olly. “Oh, heaven, I know.”
Arakny followed, but Olly soon outdistanced her. She had been running on the prairie for days, back and forth from the moving wagon, gathering dyestuffs compulsively, as though life depended upon the artifice. Her legs had become quick and strong; they were tireless now as she sped down the hill and across the wandering skein of water. By the time she reached the wagon, she was qu
ite alone.
She stumbled against one of the wagon wheels and held her breath. Where was Coyote? She heard a yawn. He was curled against the wheel.
“Wake up!” she demanded, falling to the ground beside him.
She was greeted by a brief flash of starlight on teeth.
“Araughrrr,” he said, deep in his throat. “Who could sleep with all this clatter.”
“Are you awake?”
“Of course I’m awake! What is it?”
“The men after Abasio, they’ve taken him. You said they were far behind!”
“They were,” he replied, suddenly ear-prickingly alert. “They were a considerable distance, a day’s run. Three of them. Two ordinary smellers and a stinker.”
“They must have hitched a ride with someone,” she said bitterly, “for they were here, up the hill, at the dance. They saw Abasio, and they took him, just like that. Almost as though they knew who he was. Almost as though someone had told them what he looks like now.”
“Don’t talk to me in that suspicious tone,” snapped Coyote. “I didn’t tell them.”
“Someone did.”
“Someone may have done, but that’s not the problem at the moment, is it? What do you want from me? Conversation? Counsel?”
“Rescue!” she demanded angrily.
“You have a high opinion of my abilities, girl.”
“Not yours, no,” she whispered, raising her head to listen. Down near the river, Arakny was calling her name. “The two who were following me, looking for me. The walkers you said smelled so strange. What would they do if they thought those three gangers had me?”
Coyote scratched himself reflectively. “They’d go find out, most likely.”
“You could make them think it was so!”
“Make the two walkers think the three gangers had you?” He snorted. “Lying to those two might be the last act of my sneaky life. A very bad idea.”
She shook him frantically. “You’re clever. You kept the ogres away from us. You can do the same thing with the walkers, somehow, without lying, without their knowing even who did it. You can figure out a way. Make them think the gangers have me and are taking me back to the city. Please!”
“What do I get out of it?”
She cried, “What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” he said, stretching. “I’ll think of something.” He licked his jaws thoughtfully. “What do you want him back for?”
She glared at him. “Why … because. He’s my—well, he’s …”.
“You don’t know why you want him,” commented Coyote. “But you’ll no doubt think of some reason, sooner or later.”
“Hurry,” she commanded “Arakny’s coming.”
“Achr,” he growled. “I need your clothes. Something womanly. Something you wear next to your skin!”
She gaped at him.
“Come, girl, don’t dally. You want your whatever rescued, give me credit for a bit of clever of my own. Give me your underwear!”
She stripped off her tunic, pulled the soft stuff of her chemise over her head, and dropped it, tugged the tunic back on.
“Where will you be?” Coyote whispered.
“West. Toward the Place of Power. I can’t—I can’t wait here. I have to—I have to go.”
Arakny called again, this time from the grove along the river.
Coyote gave Olly a look, distant lights reflecting from his eyes, then snatched up the chemise and scampered under the wagon and thence into the darkness among the trees.
“What are you doing?” demanded Arakny, coming across the clearing. “You’re not going to try to go after him alone.”
“Who would go with me?” asked Olly in a bitter voice. “You?”
“Yes,” said Arakny gravely. “Though I think it’s a fool’s pursuit, I’ll go with you rather than see you go alone.”
Olly leaned against the wagon and laughed hysterically. “I learned to fight as a child, Arakny. A Hero taught me I learned well, but I remember what he told me. Between two fighters of equal skill, the larger will probably win. Between two groups, the more numerous will prevail. We’re both outskilled and outnumbered.”
“I know,” said Arakny. “That’s what I’ve been trying to say.” She stared beneath the wagon. “What happened to your dog?”
“He ran off,” Olly replied. She turned hopelessly away from the older woman and stared into the darkness. She wanted to go after Abasio. She longed for him, grieved for him, could not think of anything but him, and at the same time she could not let herself take the time.
“We’ll go after him,” said Arakny. “I’ll get some of the warriors.”
Olly shook her head. “No I can’t. There’s something more important.”
“More important!” Arakny looked at her in amazement “What could be more important?”
“Oh, Arakny. Arakny. So many things.”
“I can’t imagine what.”
“Let me put you a problem, Arakny. The world will end tomorrow, and you have the power to prevent it if you go very quickly to do a certain thing. On your way, you see a child drowning in a river. If you stop to help the child, the world will end. Where does your duty he?”
Arakny merely stared, not answering, her mouth working as though she could not find words.
Olly said softly, “I cannot help Sonny because I have to go to the Place of Power. And you cannot go after my friend, my love, because I need you to take me where I must go. Now. At once. Tonight!”
• • •
Abasio had been captured with such efficient violence, he did not fully realize what had happened until he found himself jerking along in the dark, tied in the saddle of a horse, hearing the sounds of other horses ahead and behind. He’d been hit on the head. He compared his current pain with pain remembered and assured himself it was no harder a blow than he’d had in his youth during any one of several notable ganger wars. No. No worse than that, which was quite bad enough.
His attempt at self-assurance didn’t help. He remained disoriented and dizzy, and every time he opened his eyes, his head felt as though it would explode. If he kept his eyes shut and rested his head on his bound hands, the flashing agony dwindled to a sullen throb and he could think. He’d been captured, he told himself. By gangers, no doubt. They hadn’t killed him. Maybe they’d been instructed not to.
“Where are we going?” he asked, angered to hear his voice trembling like that of a pleading child.
The man riding ahead of him answered. “Be quiet, Purple boy. We’re takin’ you ’cross the border. Old Chief Purple says bring ’im your han’s, so tha’s what we’ll do. You behave yourself, we’ll do you quick.”
Abasio considered this, knowing something was wrong with it but unable to identify just what for some time. Gradually, his mind cleared.
“You can’t take him my hands,” he said. “Not if he wants to see the tattoos.”
The man behind him rode up beside him and leaned close, a miasma rising around Abasio like that of an untended privy.
“Whachu mean?” he growled.
Abasio turned his face away, breathing through his mouth. “I mean you can’t see my tattoos. My hands are dyed. You’ll have to take all of me back.” He’d been hoping a live body was less smelly to transport than a dead one, but if they willingly traveled with this reeking giant, one rotting body more or less would make little difference to them.
“Whatso, Thrash’,” complained the giant. “D’ju see’s han’s?”
The man riding in the lead called, “Never mind. We’ll stop in a bit, have a look then. If we can’t take his hands, maybe we’ll take his head.”
“Head’ll rot before we’d get it there,” complained the third man. “Han’s’re all right. Han’s dry out okay. Heads rot till y’can’t tell whose. We got nothin’ to put ’im in to keep ’im from rottin’.”
The lead man was unperturbed. “Talk about it when we stop.”
Abasio slumped in the saddle. He’d
never planned to die this way. Of course, he’d never really planned to die anyway. And Olly! Would she know what had happened to him? Maybe—maybe she’d try to rescue him!
Maybe she’d better not, he thought bleakly. Better limit the damage. She wouldn’t have a chance against these three, and somehow he couldn’t see the people of Artemisia helping her out. No, any thought of being rescued was what Grandpa would call a foolish hope. Here he was, ending up just as Grandpa and Ma had always feared, on the wrong end of a retaliation.
He slumped further, head resting upon his bound hands. Given enough time, maybe he could gnaw his way out of these bonds.
And then what? He considered how he might escape, playing the scenes over as the horse plodded into darkness. All his scenarios ended in his recapture and immediate dispatch. By the time the man in the lead called the journey to a halt, he had no ideas left.
“We’ll stop until morning,” the leader announced as he dismounted and came toward Abasio. He pulled Abasio not ungently from the saddle and stood him on his feet. “May as well know who has you, boy. Give you our arena names, jus’ so you’ll know who’s doin’ what I’m Thrasher. This is Masher, and the big one’s Crusher. An’ so’s you’ll know why, Old Chief Purple’s payin’ us a crow for you.”
“How’d you know who I was?”
“Recconized you, boy. We was standin’ guard for Whistler when you bought some stuff. He called you by name.”
Abasio grew cold in the pit of his stomach. “You’re Survivors.”
“What else, boy? Survivors, sure.”
The other two men busied themselves collecting wood and setting a fire, then Crusher lifted Abasio—casually using only one hand to do it, as though he lifted a stick of firewood—into the light of the fire where Abasio’s hands could be seen. Thrasher laughed abruptly and muttered a command, at which Crusher carried their prisoner to a stout tree and bound his wrists behind him around the trunk.
When the giant left him alone, Abasio tested the bonds. He was tied with thong, but there wasn’t a long enough piece of it between his wrists to abrade it on the rough bark. He would bloody himself to no purpose if he tried. The men were professionals. But then, he’d known that as soon as he’d heard their names. These were Survivors’ survivors. Rulers of the arena, become mercenaries. Almost legendary, they were.