Marching As to War: A Post-Apocalyptic Novel (17 page)

“So that’s Asheville,”
I said.

“Yeah,” Riley said. “Ever been down here?”

“No.
You?”

“No. A cousin came down once to do some trading. The
sumbitch got drunk and lost everything in a card game.”

“And you wonder why city folk think Hillbillies are dumb.”

Daylight was fading behind the mountains to our west, and
the lights were coming on in the city. From the hillside where we stood, I
looked toward the southern edge of the city, where the Government headquarters
was, where Jane might be. We were too far away, and it was too dark to see
anything.

Riley and I had said little in the days we had been
traveling. Until we contacted the Underground, we did not know a damn thing. So
why talk? Tomorrow we would find the house and we would know something. Good or
bad, we would know.

We settled in for the night without building a fire. We were
too close to the Government’s army for that. Riley took the first watch, as he always
did, and I went to sleep. I dreamt of the soldiers taking Jane away. She was in
pain. I could see it in her eyes. Then I saw the rifle in her hands the moment
before they took it away from her. And then, it wasn’t in her hands, but in
mine, and I was giving it to her. Then, it wasn’t a rifle. It was a flower. We
were in a meadow, and I was handing her a flower I had picked just for her.

She didn’t look the way I had known her. Her hair was long,
and she wore a dress. She smiled at me as I handed her the flower. I was going
to say something, something I was frightened to say. And then, she asked me if
I wanted more eggs. We were in a kitchen, a kitchen like my mother’s, and Jane
was putting fried eggs on my plate. I looked around the table, and there were
two children.
Our children.

I turned to smile at Jane, but we weren’t in the kitchen
anymore. We were in the woods. Jane was ahead, wearing her old clothes again,
running from me. I called to her, and she turned. Then she was holding up one
hand as if I should stop, as if I should go back. She shook her head and
shouted something.

Then soldiers were everywhere, all shooting at me. I could
hear the bullets go by and feel the way they made the air move.

Then the rifle butt was coming toward me, and again I
watched, and again I wondered why I didn’t duck. It hit me. Then I saw myself
kneeling on the ground, my head bent forward. I couldn’t see my face. The
soldiers were standing around me, and one had a pistol to my head. I recognized
him. It was Hobbes. He had a pistol to my head and was going to shoot me. I
wondered where Jane was.

But then the kneeling man wasn’t me anymore. It was Riley.
Hobbes fired the pistol, and Riley’s head exploded. I could hear Jane
screaming. I looked at Hobbes, but the man with the smoking pistol was now me.

I was awake, sitting up and breathing hard. Riley was
looking at me. I held up a hand and said, “A dream.”

Riley nodded and turned away to let me settle down.

But I wasn’t going to sleep, not that night. So I got up and
relieved Riley.

He fell asleep, and I was alone in the dark. I thought about
the dream even though I knew I shouldn’t. I had the urge to wake Riley up and
tell him about it. I had the urge, but I didn’t.
It’s just a dream
, I thought.
Just a dream
.

The next day we found the house. It was on the edge of town,
and only one building nearby seemed occupied. Riley and I hid in a thicket with
a view of the front door. We waited until it was full-on dark.

“I’ll go,” I said. “You’re a better shot. Cover me with your
rifle.”

“Good luck, Mr. Watson,” he said.

“I just hope Mr. Holmes is in this evening.”

I walked toward the house. I could hear music coming from
the front room, where a single lamp glowed. Someone was playing the fiddle. But
it wasn’t like the fiddle music we had up home. The music was slow and strange,
complicated.
Beautiful.

I went into the yard. After one last look around, I walked
up the steps, drew a breath, and knocked on the door.

The music stopped, and the lamp in the front room went out.
I held my empty hands out at my sides. In the front window, the curtains moved.
They were taking a look at me.

I heard movement inside. A bolt slid back, and the door
opened a few inches. A woman’s voice said, “What do you want?”

“My name’s Watson,” I said. “I’m looking for Holmes.”

Silence.

I started again, “My name is--”

“We heard you,” the woman said.

A long pause.
Then the door opened.
The woman said, “Slow. Keep you hands where we can see them.”

I drew another breath and walked forward through the
doorway. Then I felt a gun barrel press against the back of my head. “Keep
moving,” said a man’s voice, and I walked forward. I heard the door shut and
the bolt slide home.

The man said, “Stop.” I stopped and saw the flare of a match
to my right. The woman lit a lamp.

“You armed?” the man said.

“Yes,” I said.
“A pistol in the back,
under my coat.”

The woman put the lamp down on a table. I could see her now.
Tall and lean with dark hair, she had the look of someone ready for a fight.
She took my pistol, checked to see if it was loaded, and aimed it at my belly.

“You alone?”
The man said.

“No.
One more.
Across
the road.”

“What do you want?”

“Help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Jane Darcy.”

“Jane Darcy?” he said. “She’s at Government headquarters.
Everyone knows that. Is that all you want?”

“No. We want to get her out.”

“You’d need an army to get her out of there.”

“Will you help us or not?” I said.

There was a long silence. The woman gave a single nod. Then
the gun was pulled away from my head, and the man said, “We’ll see. Get your
partner. Meet you around back.”

I turned to look at him. He was a tall balding man without a
beard, about my father’s age.
“My pistol?”
I said.

He nodded in the direction of the woman. I turned back
toward her. She handed it to me, and I stuck it in my belt.

I waited until they put out the lamp before going out onto
the porch. Taking a deep breath, I signaled Riley to follow me to the back.

The man took us to the cellar. He showed us a chamber behind
a set of shelves. That was our hiding place should soldiers, or anyone else,
come to the house.

“I imagine you’re hungry,” he said. “We’ll get you some
food. Then we’ll talk.”

The woman brought us each a bowl of stew, which Riley and I
ate quickly. It was our first hot food in a long time.

The man and the woman sat on wooden crates and asked
questions. They wanted to know about our militia, about the war, about Jane’s
part in it. When we told them we wanted to rescue Jane, they looked at us like
we were crazy.

“If they were from the Government,” the man said, “they’d
have a more believable story.”

Riley and I kept quiet, waiting.

Finally, the woman said, “We’ll have to get a decision from
the leadership.” The man nodded.

“How do you do that?” I said.

“You don’t need to know,” the man said.

“How long will it take?” I said.

“It will take as long as it takes,” he said.

So much
, I
thought,
for asking questions
.

“In the meantime,” the woman said, “we’ll see what you can
do about the way you look.”

Riley and I glanced at each other.

“In what we’re doing,” the woman said, “you never want
people to notice you. But everything about you two, your clothes, your hair,
and no offense, the way you smell, just screams, ‘Hillbilly.’”

“None taken, Ma’am,” I said. “But what can we do about
that.”

“A bath and a haircut to begin,” she said. “And we’ll wash
your clothes.”

“What are your names?” I said.

“It’s better if you don’t know,” he said. “Call us John and
Mary. What shall we call you?”

“You mean, not my real name?” I said.

“Right,” he said.

“Call me Peter,” I said.

“Paul,” Riley said.

“OK, Peter and Paul,” the woman said. “You get some sleep
now. We’ll start tomorrow.”

They went upstairs. Riley and I laid out our bedrolls.

“
Whatcha
think?” Riley said.

“Not what I expected, but we have to trust them.”

“Reckon so.”

Soon, I could hear the sound of Riley’s breathing. Riley had
a talent for falling asleep. I didn’t. I just lay awake, thinking about Jane
and the strange music.

The next day I had my first bath in a long time. I felt a
sorry for Riley, who had let me go first. He would have to use the same water
after I was done. But it didn’t bother him.

“Up home, my three older brothers always used the bath water
before me,” he said. “And you’re a damned sight cleaner than they ever was.”

My clothes were still drying, so I put on some britches and
a shirt John gave me. I felt like I was wearing a tent when I went to Mary for
my haircut.

She sat me down, and put a sheet over me and cinched it up
around my neck. Then she started pulling a comb through my wet hair. “Are you
Peter or Paul?” she said.

It took me a moment to remember my false name. “I think I’m
Peter.”

“So Peter, how old
are
you?”

“Almost 20, Ma’am.
How old are
you?”

She stopped combing. “Don’t you mountain boys know it’s not
polite to ask a woman her age?”

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,”

She started combing my hair again and said, “Don’t call me
‘Ma’am.’ It makes me feel old.”

“Should I call you Mary?”

“That’ll do.” She began using scissors to trim my beard.

I let her work in silence for a while. Then I said, “Last
night, was that you playing the fiddle?”

“Yes, but it’s called the violin.”

“Violin?
It was beautiful. I’ve
never heard anything like it. What was the tune?”

“Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor.”

“That’s a strange name. The tunes I know are church hymns or
have names like ‘Wildwood Flower,’ or ‘Cotton-Eyed Joe.’”

She cut the long hair off my forehead. “It was written a
long time ago in Europe. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes, Ma’am . . . Mary.
I learned
how to read and write in a school we had up home. I liked history. But not much
time for reading in the militia. I miss it.”

“I’ll find you a book.”

“Thank you. That’d be nice.”

She clipped the hair around my ears.

“Your husband must enjoy listening to you play,” I said.

“John tolerates it. But we’re not married. We’re just
together.” She paused. “Does that shock you?”

It did, but I said, “It’s not my business to be judging.”

She went back to cutting my hair. “I was married. My husband
was killed.”

“I’m sorry. Was he fighting the Government too?”

“No. He wasn’t in the Underground. He believed you could change
things with words, with talking and writing. He was wrong. The Government
arrested and murdered him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Then I joined the Underground.”

“You have children?”

“A son.”
She paused. “We’re not
going to talk about that.”

For a while, we didn’t say anything. She kept cutting my
hair. Then she said, “Tell me about Jane.”

“Well, we told you about the war,” I said. “What else would
you like to know?”

I expected Mary to ask if Jane really talked with God.
Instead, she said, “Is she your woman?”

“No. It’s not like that.” I felt myself blushing.

“I see. But you’re risking your life for her. Why?”

“I . . . we can’t just abandon her.”

“I understand. But what you’re trying to do is impossible.”

“Jane did the impossible for us. If it weren’t for her, the Government
would have our land.” I remembered Jane’s smile as she stood above Waynesville,
watching it burn. And I remembered her screaming in my face, telling me to
attack. I pushed those thoughts away.

“She must have been remarkable.”

“She is. I’m always afraid. I’m afraid right now. But I
don’t think she’s ever afraid.”

She stopped cutting my hair. “My husband was like that. No
doubts.
A pure faith.”

She started cutting again and said, “Who am I to talk?
Fighting the Government is hopeless. They’re too strong.”

“But you’re fighting anyway?”

“Yes,” she said.

She kept cutting my hair. After a while, she asked about my
family and our farm. I talked about that until she finished.

She handed me a mirror with a carved wooden handle. I was
surprised by what I saw. My beard was trimmed close and even, and my hair was
short, short as Jane’s when I first saw her. I felt strange. “So how do you
like the new you?” she said.

“Well, I . . . well, thank you.”

She was laughing. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used it. Now get
your friend. It’s his turn.”

I thanked her again and went downstairs to get Riley.

“Damn,” he said. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” I said.
“Your turn.”

Riley stared at me a moment longer and swallowed hard, as
though he were nervous. Then, without a word, he got up and climbed the stairs.

I sat on my bedroll and rubbed one hand over my hair,
enjoying the strange feel of it. When I was a boy, my mother used to crop my
hair real short as soon as the weather turned warm in the spring. For a day or
two after, I would rub my hand over the fresh cut hair, just for the small
simple pleasure in it, just as I was doing now.

When I was a boy
,
I thought. That seemed a long time ago.
Before the militia,
before the blue-eyed man, before Jane, before this.
I wondered if any of
that
boy
was still in me. I wondered if any of that
boy
would make it through what came next.