Climate of Change

  “We appreciate that. My sister Haven will keep an eye on her.”

  “That may be difficult. She’s fourteen and uncomfortably independent. We have had to hide her from the troops.”

  “Fourteen? Too bad we can’t hide her from our teen boys.”

  The farmer smiled when he heard the translation, appreciating the half joke. Teens were teens all over, hard to manage.

  The girl joined them in the morning, and Craft was relieved. Her face was plain, her body spare, and her hair was caught back in a messy knot. She wore a faded caftan-shaped robe and long soft trousers, with no decorations. She would be no magnet for the boys.

  But as they started riding, and Fia led the way, Craft had cause to reconsider. The girl was a natural rider, clinging comfortably to her mount with no saddle or harness, her every movement competent and smooth. On horse back she was a beauty. And she knew it.

  Worse, she had packed away her robe and trousers, and now wore a close–laced leather vest and short leather skirt. Craft realized they were for protection and comfort when riding through virtual wilderness, as she surely did a lot. There was no point in wearing her good clothes here. But the vest showed the outline of her nicely formed breasts as she leaned well forward, with a bit of flattened cleavage under the lacing, and the skirt showed her well-fleshed thighs. Especially when the passing breeze lifted the hem, flashing tantalizing glimpses of her taut bottom as it bounced with the gait of the horse.

  The boys were staring. Craft could hardly blame them; he was staring himself. A girl who had seemed like nothing when standing still in traditional apparel was sheer dynamic sex appeal in motion on horse-back. The boys were quietly vying to be first following Fia single file on the narrow sections of the trail.

  Yet what could he say? The girl was doing nothing wrong, and they needed her guidance. So he pretended to be oblivious, both of the girl and of Haven’s somewhat grim expression. She understood the voiceless dialogue all too well.

  Near midday they broke for lunch. There was a small cold stream for water, by no accident; Fia knew the route. Haven shared out salted meat and dried fruit, including to the girl, and they took care of natural functions in the secluded brush. It was a pleasant location, cool because they were were well up on a mountain slope.

  Fia perched on a convenient rock, loosened her hair, and leaned forward as she ate and talked. Her hair as it fell free was thick and flowing, and both breasts and thighs showed to advantage. The boys managed to find comfortable seats on the ground below her. They were rapt, pretending interest in her dialogue.

  Craft glanced at Haven, but she gave no indication. Hero seemed not to be looking, but Craft knew he was; he was just better at masking it than most. Rebel was smiling faintly, well versed in the art of showing. It was Fia’s stage.

  “It is said that the ruin of Noah’s Ark is near here,” she said, as Rebel translated. “I have looked for it, but never found it. Only a few tattered planks.”

  “Planks?” Craft asked. He was actually interested in the subject. He had studied the specifications of Noah’s Ark with an eye to possibly reproducing it, but had been too busy with other things to tackle such a giant project. And what would be the purpose? No serious flooding threatened.

  “It has been more than a thousand years,” Fia said. “Any original Ark wood would have rotted away to nothing long since. So these must have been from some more recent structure. Still . . .” She shrugged, her knees moving slightly apart.

  Craft thought the boys were going to faint. Some things needed no translation.

  “Probably they cannibalized the Ark to build new houses,” Craft said. “So its wood might survive, but not in any recognizable state.”

  “That must be it!” Fia agreed. “So there’s nothing remaining here.”

  “They might have saved some of it as a memento,” Craft said. “Carefully covered and concealed, so that robbers wouldn’t cart it away.”

  “Something still to find,” Fia said dreamily. “I’ll keep looking.” Then she reconsidered. “Except that we’re being deported. For our own safety, they say.”

  “You don’t believe it?” Craft asked.

  “There are too many stories of massacres. They march whole villages away, but we don’t know whether they’re really going to Mosul, or getting killed and buried. The Turks don’t much like the Hai.”

  “Fia,” Rebel said. “When’s the deportation?” She spoke in Hai, but the essence was clear.

  Now the girl’s face clouded. “Tomorrow.”

  “Then how are we to return your horses?”

  “You can’t. They’re lost anyway.”

  Craft was hardly surprised.

  “And you,” Rebel said. “What will you return to?”

  Fia’s face worked. “Nothing.”

  “Your father—he didn’t send you just to guide us. It was to get you safely away from the family before the troops came.” Rebel spoke in Hai, then in Alan.

  Now tears started down the girl’s face. “He took me aside. He said ‘Fia, I love you. Don’t come back.’ I can’t go back.”

  “And he trusted us because he had to. We’re Family, and Christian. He knew we would not abuse you.”

  “Yes,” the girl whispered. “He said to—to make the boys want me. So you wouldn’t let me go. I am of age.”

  So the exposure hadn’t been accidental, Craft realized. Fia had arranged to show her assets.

  Rebel smiled. “And if we held a vote right now, whether to take you with us . . .” She glanced around, taking a silent survey.

  “Yes!” Risk said immediately.

  “Yes,” Dex and Sin echoed together.

  “Put your knees together,” Haven said. “Of course we’ll take you. But there will be rules.”

  Fia put them together even before the translation. “Yes.”

  “But we are going into danger,” Craft protested, for the record.

  “No worse than what she faces here,” Rebel said. “We will not rape her and kill her.”

  “If the Turks catch us, we’ll all be finished,” Haven said. “Meanwhile she can be useful as a Hai contact. She knows the culture and the people, and she speaks the language.”

  “Yes,” Fia agreed.

  “You will night with me, not the boys,” Haven said. “I will be your mother, and Risk your brother, and the twins your half brothers.”

  The three boys exchanged a glance, disappointed. They could no longer view Fia as a prospective romance. But they knew better than to protest.

  They resumed their journey. Fia still led the way, but somehow now less of her flesh showed. She had vamped the boys by necessity, not preference. Or so it was convenient to believe. She was after all a teen, as they were.

  The girl did turn out to be useful. She knew more contacts than Rebel did, could make herself more readily comprehended, and when the Hai understood that she had found an avenue to potential safety, they were generous in their assistance.

  Risk was officially Fia’s brother now, and he took his role seriously, staying close by her side. But it was evident that he was more than half smitten with her, and she was increasingly taken with him. They were working at learning each other’s words. When this was over, if they both survived, there was likely to be a change in their relationship. Well, Rebel had married Tuho; such interculture liaisons were hardly unknown. Dex and Sin had already realized that they were out of it.

  They arrived in the vicinity of Theodosiopolis, which the Turks had renamed Erzerum, a day ahead of schedule. Tuho was there, hale but drawn. He greeted them gladly. “She’s down to basic apparel,” he said.

  “We will strike before she loses much more,” Hero said.

  Hero and Craft assessed the situation. There were a dozen Ottoman guards on duty in Tula’s part of the compound. That was more than they had bargained on. “We need to get rid of half of them,” Hero said grimly.

  “We can take out several by ambushing them from a distance with our
guns,” Craft said. “But by no means all, and the others, alerted by the noise, will shortly overwhelm us.”

  “We need silence,” Hero said. “We have only two pistols, and they should be saved for emergency. The swords will be relatively quiet, and they won’t be expecting such weapons.”

  “I can help,” Fia said.

  “Not by getting gang-raped, which is what would happen if you show yourself there,” Haven said.

  “By distracting them,” Fia said. “I am Tula’s age and size. Suppose I dress like her, and show myself so it seems she is escaping?”

  This was eerie. Almost as if Tula’s imaginary half sister Allele had come to life.

  “But she will be right there, in shackles,” Craft protested. “They won’t be fooled.”

  “If it happened at dusk, when it is harder to see?”

  “They would quickly check.”

  “If I were naked?”

  “Not safe,” Rebel said, in both languages. “But it’s a good idea. I’ll do it.”

  “You’re too old. And they need you for the raid.”

  “Fia—” Haven said.

  “If I had a foolproof escape?”

  They hashed it over, and concluded that it wasn’t ideal, but that they did need to divert a number of troops. There was serious risk for all of them, but if it worked, they might even pull it off without losses.

  First they had to make a deal with a local farmer, a secret member of the resistance. He had to cart food to the base on a daily basis, supplying the Turks free. The alternative would be to have his farm plundered and destroyed, and that might soon happen anyway. He was a reluctant supporter of the Ottomans. He agreed to help.

  Then the boys sneaked into the unguarded supply depot, where there were only incidental things, like empty crates, brooms, and shoes. They stole several spare uniforms, such as they were. It was evident that this was a secondary outpost, starved of supplies. The “uniforms” were largely adapted from clothing looted from the local Hai, and were of mixed colors and types. But that would make it easier to masquerade as soldiers.

  It was time: dusk. Fia took her place, hidden.

  Hero, Craft, and the boys marched in toward the base, garbed as Turkish foot soldiers, complete with ceremonial scimitars. They had a prisoner with them: Rebel, in a torn dress, her hands bound but still resisting.

  “Quiet, wench!” Hero said loudly in Turkish, two words Fia had drilled him in.

  “Let me go, brute!” Rebel cried, struggling harder. She had learned four words, and of course had been exposed to the Ottoman environment for years. They spoke Turkish to be sure the guards would understand, and not think to question why a Hai captive would not be protesting in her own language.

  The guards took an interest. They had not been expecting reinforcements, but various contingents were in the area, and sometimes different ones stopped by the base. Maybe these had come to share the captive, in exchange for some illicit wine. Muslims were not supposed to drink anything alcoholic, but this rule was widely flouted in the field.

  Then Fia appeared beside a building, screaming. “Free! Free!” They had all learned that word, knowing she would use it.

  The Turks did not even glance at the crate where Tula was imprisoned. It was obvious that she had somehow scrambled out of it. Four of them lurched unsteadily to their feet, shaking off the effect of the wine. They lumbered after the fleeing girl.

  One guard was by the exit to the access road. He grabbed for the girl, catching her sleeve. But her shirt came off in his hand, leaving her bare-breasted. She was not as well-developed as Tula, but in the partial light and in motion the effect was good enough to fool the Turks. Her head remained covered by a tattered scarf like the one Tula had. They might not have cared much even if they knew she was different; she was a Hai girl for the taking.

  The girl ran around the corner of the building and disappeared. The guards collided with each other in their eagerness to pursue her, and took moments to untangle and resume the chase. But as they did, a supply wagon came down the road, and the four guards almost collided with it.

  There was a violent exchange of curses, by guards and the surly wagoner, as each sought the right of way in the narrow road. Then the guards squeezed past, resuming their pursuit though the girl was nowhere in sight, and the wagon rolled on into the compound and halted. “Help me unload, you loafers!” the driver called, or words to that effect.

  But the four remaining guards refused. They were not day laborers, and they were on duty. The wagoner had to do it by himself, cursing steadily in a monotone.

  Craft stifled a smile. If only they knew! Fia had disappeared not by fleeing down the road beyond the wagon, but by scrambling into the compartment in the bed of the wagon, under piled supplies. She was still there as the driver unloaded. She would remain there, silent, until the wagon trundled on out of the compound, empty.

  Meanwhile the five men and one captive arrived at the other side of the compound. The guards stood, their eyes on Rebel, whose struggles had torn away her own shirt, though her hands remained bound before her.

  “Take this spitfire,” Hero said, using more rehearsed words. “Teach her manners.” He shoved Rebel into the arms of the nearest guard.

  The man gladly grabbed her and pulled her close. She came up against him, chest to chest. Then he groaned and collapsed. Blood welled from his chest where she had stabbed him with what turned out to be not a rope around her wrists, but a loose thong and knife.

  The other three reacted quickly enough. But now Hero, Risk, and Dexter attacked them with swords. The Turks were caught by surprise, but they were trained soldiers, and in a moment were defending themselves with their own not entirely ceremonial swords. It seemed they lacked guns; maybe those were reserved for the front line.

  Craft and Sinister ran for the crate. “Tula!” Craft called.

  “Uncle!” she cried gladly, lifting her bound hands.

  Craft used his knife to saw through the rope, while Sinister stood guard.

  Meanwhile Hero quickly downed his man, but the other guards were driving Risk and Dexter back, being stouter and more experienced with the sword. Dexter cried out as he was wounded. Craft heard without seeing; he was focusing on the tough rope, making sure not to cut Tula’s wrist along with it. Her hands came free, and she flung her arms around his neck, quickly kissing him in her relief at being rescued.

  Craft heard a shot. Sinister screamed and fell. Now Craft had to look. There was a bullet hole in the boy’s back, fired by a returning guard from the Fia chase. So there were some guns in service here, unfortunately. The wound had to be mortal.

  Hero took on the guard who had wounded Dexter, and Dexter charged across the compound, his left arm dripping blood. He launched himself at the guard before the man could reload his archaic pistol, slashing viciously. He was the right-handed twin.

  The guard dropped the pistol and drew his sword to defend himself, but Dexter, though inexperienced, had gone berserk. He slashed and slashed again, battering down the guard’s defenses, and in moments wounded him on the arm, then on the neck, and finally in the chest. He went down, finished.

  Hero and Risk had killed their men. “Get out of here!” Hero called. “The sound of the shot will bring every soldier in on the run.”

  “My brother!” Dexter cried.

  “He’s dead,” Craft said. “We have to leave him.” He hated to do it, because Sinister was his son, but he knew they would never be able to get away while dragging the body. They had to leave him so as not to lose more of their number.

  Rebel crossed over to take Tula, who clung gladly to her. They were mother and daughter. Craft took Dexter by the arm and led him away. The boy was now like a zombie, his passion expended. They fled the compound, and soon were in the forest. They had escaped, for the moment.

  Now there was time to unwind as they reverted to their own clothing. Rebel bound Dexter’s wound; it was a bad cut on the arm, but not lethal. “You fought li
ke a hero,” she told him.

  He refused to have it. “My brother!”

  Tula tried to comfort him. “He was a hero. He died helping me and Allele escape.” She still seemed to be half in shock herself, not having known she would be rescued. The Turks had made sure she understood what they had in store for her.

  He would not be consoled. “He’s dead!”

  “He’s dead,” Craft agreed, stricken in his own way. “Make sure your mother does not lose you too.”

  That made the boy take notice. He was silent.

  Craft was hurting, but what made it worse was thinking how he would have to tell his wife, Crenelle, Sinister’s mother. She had been against letting the boys come.

  They made their way to the rendezvous where Haven waited. She opened her arms to Dexter, and he fell into them, sobbing. She was not his mother, but she was well familiar with the role. She held him, wordlessly. Risk, her true son, nodded, understanding perfectly.

  In due course Fia appeared, having made her way alone. That aspect of their ruse had succeeded splendidly.

  Tula embraced her, having learned her identity and role during the wait. They were of even age and height, not otherwise similar, but in that moment they resembled sisters. They were after all both Hai, both Family.

  Then they turned and closed on Risk, hugging him from either side. One was his sister, the other his girlfriend.

  Tuho appeared. He clasped his daughter to him, and they both shed tears. The Family had come through. He kissed Rebel. They had been married six years and still seemed to be in love. Then he spoke.

  “We can’t stay here,” Tuho said grimly. “The Turks are organizing to search the entire area, and they will torture anyone who they think has information. They have cut off the roads to Alania. There will be a cordon.”

  “So we will have to fight our way out?” Hero asked.

  “We can’t. They have overwhelming force. But there is a retreat.”

  “Ah,” Hero said.

  “It is just now being set up by refugees from Theodosiopolis and the surroundings. Hai who will be deported or massacred anyway. It is a mountain called Musa Dagh.”