Donor 23 (26 page)

“Did he come he back to your tent? He must have.”

One Who Sees shook her head. “He wasn’t going to come back. I realized that.” She raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “So I went to his tent.”

Joan leaned in with expectation.

“Yes. I took a lit candle. I was so nervous. I didn’t know what to do. I only knew I wanted him—to be with him. I held the candle tightly. I remember my hand was shaking. The dripping wax singed my wrist…” She rubbed her wrist and stared ahead, seeming to be in another place.

Joan couldn’t wait. “So what happened? He blew out the flame?”

One Who See’s eyes broadened. “He took the candle from me and held it up to
my
face. Then I blew out the flame.”

After a few moments, she continued, “Old Owl told me later that I was different after that. He said Arrow Comes Back had purposely shined the light on
me
. He said a shadow had been lifted from me. I guess I realized there wasn’t only darkness in the world.”

One Who Sees regarded Joan, sitting calmly in the sun.

“Lionheart, what about you?”

“Me? Nothing.”

“What about Yellow Wolf?”

Joan didn’t know any of the Children with that name. The Children usually used the term “yellow” to refer to one with blond hair. Then suddenly Joan’s eyes widened. Duncan’s blond hair flashed in her mind.
Could she be talking about Duncan?

Joan didn’t want to let on. “Who’re you talking about?”

One Who Sees scowled, shook her head, and mimicked Joan in a fake, high pitched voice, “Who’re you talking about?” Then she said, “
Ah
, you know who I mean, the Black Shirt with the yellow hair. The one that was here a month ago.”

She noticed everything, Joan thought, but Joan continued the charade, “What makes you think—”

“I didn’t get my name because I have two different-colored eyes, Lionheart.”

Joan knew how she earned her moniker. Old Owl, the masterful storyteller, had recounted the tale to Joan:

“The young girl, still sore from her wounds—from the wrongs done to her by the Walled Nation—had lived as the daughter of the old man for the passing of one spring, one summer, one fall, and one winter. Then it happened. It happened before the summer heat, a time when the days became longer and the afternoons warmer. It was on such a warm afternoon when the girl cleaned
the blankets from the tent, shaking them in the air, and sending the dust flying. Through the dirt, floating in the sky around her, she spied certain trees and bushes, on a hill in the distance. This was nothing remarkable, for trees and bushes covered a great portion of the hill. But the girl noticed and then remembered, that these trees, these bushes, were new. They had never been there before. In truth, these were different. These held danger for the Children. The girl told her father, who told others.”

It turned out not to be trees or bushes after all. Instead they were camouflage, consisting of large branches, cloth, and small bushes set up to hide a raiding party that had intended to attack the camp. Because of One Who Sees’s keen observation, the imminent attack was routed.

Gazing at her, Joan knew of the woman’s knack to notice minutiae. And to see inside people, for Yellow Wolf was an appropriate name for Duncan.

One Who Sees continued, “And I am a girl, or was once, anyway.”

The women giggled.

“Come on, Lionheart,” she egged her on.

“It’s nothing. He—
Yellow Wolf
as you call him—and I knew each other. That’s all,” Joan admitted.

“‘Knew each other’?” One Who Sees pressed for more.

“We were friends, that’s all,” she responded.

“A donor was a friend with a Black Shirt—a TEO?” One Who Sees was incredulous.

Joan looked away. Once again, this was treading on her hidden place, the fenced-in reserve—her secrets.

A voice in the distance made them both take notice, “
Shima, Shima,
” it wailed.

It was Crackling Fire on horseback. One Who Sees stood up and waved to him.

Riding up to them, he said, “
Noshi
thought I’d find you here. He says to come back. Someone’s there. A visitor.”

27

W
hen the women approached their tent, they discovered Arrow Comes Back conversing with a man. Crackling Fire stood next to them.

The man dressed smartly. Despite the heat and dirt of the camp, he wore a stylish brown coat, tie, vest, black pants, and shiny boots. He looked about forty years old. His hat was pushed back casually on his head. Brown-blond hair sneaked out beneath it, appearing somehow messy but neat at the same time. Clean-shaven, except for a thin mustache, the man was very tan, which accentuated his sparkling eyes—a dark, grayish-blue, the color of the sky shortly after sunset but before the blackness of night. His general air and demeanor were carefree. Around his waist hung two six-shooters. An antique, silver sword dangled from his belt, with the remains of an old, weather-worn, blue tassel swinging from its handle.

The man animatedly talked, as Arrow Comes Back nodded his head. They turned to the approaching women.

“It’s He Smiles,” One Who Sees said with fondness in her voice.

“Mrs. One Who Sees,” He Smiles said. “Kind of you to remember me, ma’am.”

He swooped his hat off his head, took her hand, and kissed it.

“And this must be the indefatigable Lionheart.”

Joan was taken aback. He took her hand and kissed it as well.

“Miss Lionheart, a pleasure. Those photographs of you don’t do you justice. I am Archibald Bash, at your service.” He bowed. “Although I do also answer to the name Mrs. One Who Sees gave me.”

He smiled kindly at Joan. In his eyes flashed comprehension and compassion, as if he understood her. He spoke with a slow drawl, unhurried and relaxed. Similar to the way Garth spoke but without the hard twang. He didn’t rush his words. They spilled out of his mouth leisurely and slowly—hanging in the hot summer air, almost tantalizing, like a gentle rising sun over a hill, begging one to stay and watch it.

One Who Sees explained, “He Smiles is a...,” she paused, searching for the right words.

He finished her thought, “A gentleman of leisure. And in my spare time, I have been known to partake in a little business here and there. I’m also interested in—”

“Girls,” Crackling Fire smiled mischievously.

“Well, son, I have been seen in the company of a pretty lady or two in my life,” Bash admitted with a smile, winking at Crackling Fire and mussing his hair.

Not one for idle conversation, Arrow Comes Back interrupted, “He brought someone here.”

Bash stepped back. Coming from behind the tent, Reck emerged.

In less than a second, Reck and Joan rushed into each other’s arms, hugging and not wanting to let go. Her face buried in his chest; she held back tears. Finally, they pulled apart.

“Joanie,” he uttered affectionately.

“How…?” Joan asked.

She impulsively wrapped her arms around him again.

“Jack, your trainer, arranged it. Smuggled us out.”

“Us?” she looked around.

“Well, Kaleb didn’t make it to my truck—didn’t make the truck I was on. But Jack said he’d be following me.”

“Oh, Kaleb’s coming also? I can’t believe it. This’s too good,” she hugged him again.

“The three musketeers,” they said in unison, holding hands.

Joan noticed everyone was watching them.

“Oh, Reck, this is my…” The first word that came to her lips was family.
But she had no family
. Instead she said, “These are One Who Sees and Arrow Comes Back. He helped me in the wilderness—saved me.”

Suddenly a loud voice interrupted them, “Archibald Bash, is that you? I heard you were in the camp.”

They turned to the voice. A long-legged woman about thirty-five-years old, maybe a trader or hunter, stood there. Dressed in pants and a black hat, she had a gun at her hip and another slung over her shoulder. Her long, black, curly hair seemed to flow directly from the hat upon her head. Her countenance glistened a natural, light-tan color and exhibited confidence and boldness. She spoke with a graceful and fluid accent, arising from the back of her throat. When she said the word “Archibald,” she rolled the “r,” making the name fall growling off her tongue.

     
“Isabel, my dear,” Bash answered, bowing his head. “It’s been too long,” he smiled genuinely happy.

“Since Angel City. And don’t flash your smile at me, you rascal! You know you owe me.” The “r” still rolled with the word “rascal,” but this time it was softer, more like the purr of a cat.

Bash raised his eyebrows. “Well, my dear, I have some good news—”

“And some bad news,” Isabel finished, flashing a wide grin. “You haven’t changed.”

Bash chuckled, “And the good news is I always repay my debts.”

He turned to the others.

“Excuse me.” Turning back to Isabel, he asked, “Do you have a tent around here—somewhere we can…talk?”

As they walked off, Bash held out his arm to her, saying, “
Senorita
.” She took it.

Reck and Joan sat, appropriately, under Talking Tree. He filled her in on all that transpired since her escape: the poster, the name Lionheart, the minor rebellion in the ghetto.

“So, I have Zenobia to thank for that name,” Joan shook her head.

He told Joan about his flight from the Alliance. He spent most of the time in the back of the tractor-trailer, quite comfortably, he explained. He had blankets, plenty of food, water, and reading material. At the various checkpoints along the way, the army never even looked in the truck. Shortly before they reached the last outpost, the truck dropped him off at a designated spot, where Bash met him. Then he and Bash spent the next couple weeks riding to the camp.

“The wilderness is beautiful,” he murmured dreamily. Joan realized he was excited and proud of his adventure. “It’s nothing like what we learned in school. We slept under the stars. I got a knack for riding horses and even tried hunting. Bash showed me how to use his gun. Didn’t get anything, though. I’m going to have to learn about shooting and all. Jack told me this Lucas guy is big in the Resistance—”

“Resistance?” Joan questioned.

“Yeah, he’s fighting the Alliance. We’re going to join up with him.”

“Wait. What? Join up?” Joan interrupted.

“Yeah, with the Resistance. Fight the Alliance.”

“Fight?” Joan exclaimed. She had barely escaped the Alliance. She had only just begun to break its hold on her.

Reck stroked her hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. Like I said, I’m learning how to shoot and all. Bash also taught me how to fish and how to navigate by the stars.”

Joan held back in telling him her “adventure,” leaving out the part about Garth and Hazel. The rest of it she related in the most basic way, devoid of the details.

Over the next few weeks, Joan and Reck spent much of their time together. Reck stayed in the outer circle of the camp, in Bash’s tent. The time they spent with one another was a tonic for Joan—a stimulant—and she drank it in.

Joan also spent time with Bash and Isabel. Isabel took to calling Joan “
hija,
” a pet name she said meant little sister or girl friend. Isabel San Luis was a trader—not of goods or supplies, but of information and news. She had trekked across the entire continent—including the Alliance—gathering information. She came from a country in the southern part of the continent. Before the Impact her family had owned one of the nation’s largest media and information companies, its major interests being newspapers. She laughed that gathering and reporting the news was in her blood. Although she travelled for her profession, she wasn’t a loner—she was just independent.

As for Bash, something about him instantly put Joan at ease. He was certainly amiable. “A charming rogue,” One Who Sees called him. He was generous to a fault with money—what little he had—but not with his emotions. Although he captivated almost everyone with his charisma, he never let anyone get close to him. One Who Sees was the only one who could peer inside him. She was the only one who recognized the noble, gentle side of the affirmed wanderer.

Archibald Bash was no stranger to heartache. Both his parents died when he was fifteen, leaving him and his little sister alone. The children made their home on a beach that bordered a large gulf. They hunted daily along the edge and in the shallow, warm waters for artifacts and antiques. After the waters from the great flood receded, the area offered a treasure trove of items. He and his sister enjoyed trekking through old, abandoned homes, gathering things. Every week they traveled to markets, in the nearest towns that were in the process of rebuilding, to sell the items.

One day the kids had been trudging through a sparse forest, which opened up to a group of broken, destroyed buildings: an old city. They walked through the deserted streets, playing as if they strolled through a bustling city, full of people.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the young Bash uttered to no one, as he stepped out of an imaginary person’s way.

“Oh, I’d like to eat at that restaurant!” his sister joked, as they stood outside a building that was once a dining establishment. One piece of a broken window remained, painted with a picture of a cup of coffee.

Most all the buildings lacked roofs and many were missing walls. Then they turned a corner and discovered an immense library—a huge building still standing in its entirety. The library was a massive, square structure with granite columns in the front and a stone pediment with carvings over the main door. Surprisingly, even the windows remained intact. They broke in through one window and discovered books from floor to ceiling and scattered over the floor beneath a thin layer of sand and dirt. Many had been water damaged, of course, but they had dried out and were in readable condition. Bash and his sister moved into the edifice, enjoying the books, the warmth, and the shelter the library offered.

In one room of the building, his sister found an old sword, still in a display case, the glass above it broken. The sword
rested on a bed of dark blue velvet, but it was water damaged and covered in rust. Hiding it from Bash, the girl spent any time she had alone removing the rust and polishing it, until it shone. Out of blue yarn gathered from an old clothing shop, she fashioned a tassel about the size of her fist and fastened it to the saber’s handle. She presented the gift to Bash on his birthday. Bash had not yet experienced his teenage-growth spurt, and when he tied the sword to his belt, it dragged on the ground. Even so he wore it every day.