Raging Star (42 page)

Mercy won’t be back. That’s all they’ll tell me. She must of bin caught tryin to leave the message in the drop box. I dunno if she’s alive or dead.

But somebody, maybe her, picked the archangel. It was brewed an brought to me in wine. I don’t touch it.

Tomorrow, I marry DeMalo.

A strange slave woman wakes me in the grey time. As the night turns towards dawn. She’s bin sent to dress me to be wed. As she lights every lantern in the room, I see the gown that’s bin laid at the foot of my bed. It was put there while I slept.

It’s strange. Wonderful. Extraordinary, like he said. A queenly gown. Long to the floor. Tight sleeves to the wrist. Laced up the back. The colour of rich wine. Made of heavy soft cloth. It’s old. Wrecker old. It’s bin garlanded with fresh flowers, with real leaves. With feathers an polished stones. There’s a circle of twisted gold fer my head. No boots. That means he wants bare feet.

Nero taps on the window. I let him in. I wash my face an hands. The woman combs my hair. She’s shy. Won’t meet my eyes. Her name, she tells me, is Fan.

In silence, she laces me in. The gown fits me perfect. Of
course. He’s seen to it. Fan’s brought rose petals in oil. She rubs ’em into my cheeks an lips. I must have bloom. The flush of joy. That’s what he wants. Today, appearance is all.

In New Eden appearance is all. The lie dressed as truth. Slavery dressed as freedom. Me dressed as DeMalo’s bride.

The same someone who brought the gown left a tall lookin glass aginst the wall. When I’m ready, Nero comes to perch on my shoulder. We stare at the stranger who stares back at us. In the lanternglow light, the circle gleams gold on her black hair. Her eyes glitter huge an dark. The gown fits her like a skin. The neck’s low at her bosom. The skirt trails behind her with a hush. The stones catch the light. The feathers gleam.

Beautiful, says Fan. Like a forest spirit.

Nero starts to caw. He scolds, heckles me, bobs up an down. He’s right. She ain’t me, this stranger. I ain’t her. She ain’t real. She’s some idea of DeMalo’s that fits into his grand plan, his great story. With him, the powerful, wise father of New Eden. An her, the earth mother. An the Angel of Death is dead at last. Killed by him. Like her sister an her brother.

Dead I may be at the end of this day. But I ain’t dead yet.

I ditch the gold circle. Haul on my boots. I strap on my armour over the dress. The metal plate jerkin an armbands. It puts poor Fan in a twitch.

If there’s blame, I’ll take it, I says.

She dithers about me, the heartstone in hand, anxious to hang it around my neck.

Not that one, I says. The green glass.

I wear the necklace I gave to Lugh.

Then we go outside. Nero takes to the air. It’s cool an clear an windy. Three shades short of dawn. I find a guard of eight Tonton lined up to escort me. Hermes waits in the middle. He looks splendid. He’s bin groomed like never before in his life. He shines an gleams from ears to hoofs. He tosses his head when he sees me.

I pause. My gown’s tight. I’ll hafta ride sidewise. DeMalo’s thought of this too. A Tonton comes towards me to lift me onto horseback. I reach down an grab the hem. The old cloth tears easy. I rip it to my thighs. Then I swing myself onto Hermes.

Nero flies above me as we move down the track. Then Tracker appears in the fields alongside. The Tonton horses shy, the Tonton go fer their guns.

He’s with me, I says. He won’t harm none. I whistle fer him to come an he runs beside Hermes.

When we reach the road, we turn east.

East to the sunrise. East to Weepin Water. East to the bunker in the hill. An DeMalo’s magnificent dawn vision.

His secret. His half truth. His outright lie.

I start to hear the faint throb of drumbeats. Many drums bein played together. The faint glow of torchlight colours the sky. As we git closer, the drums grow louder. Their fast, earthy beat urges us on. The hubble of voices warms the air.

The wind’s brought great rollin banks of grey cloud. They clash an part, tumble an break overhead.

Me an my Tonton escort stop on the low ridge that overlooks the torchlit meadow. The sweetgrass meadow with the bunker hill in the middle. It’s thronged with hunnerds of people. Stewards of the Earth, scrubbed an polished. There’s plenty of Tonton about. Fer them, too, it’s a day of celebration. At the foot of the hill sit the children from Edenhome. Kept apart from the rest by a line of Tonton. Low junktents ring the meadow. Through their smokeholes, the smell of food billows from cookfires. It seems that a feast will follow.

I see what’s kept DeMalo so busy. He’s completely transformed the hill. On top of it stands the white vision room. He’s had the walls an floor an ceilin moved, piece by piece, then put back together atop the hill. The front of it stands open to the meadow so’s everybody can see inside. Jack did say it was made in sections. Only DeMalo could do such a thing. I should be amazed, but I ain’t. I know his singularity of purpose.

Extraordinary. Jest like he said. All here will witness his miraculous vision. Most of ’em will of seen it once before. In a small group, inside the bunker, at the start of their new
life in New Eden. But today they’ll witness it together. At the dawn of this marriage day of great joy.

The story will be told fer generations to come.

Everybody’s seen us. They’ve all seen me. They fall silent as I follow the front four Tonton. The back four bring up the rear. The drums beat our way down the ridge. The crowd falls back, clears a path fer us to the hill.

In this broody dawn of torchlight an drums, crow on my shoulder, wolfdog at my side, people ain’t certain if I’m real or not. The Angel of Death. Slayer of kings. She who rides the night with starfallen souls. Superstitious fools, DeMalo called ’em.

A few brave ones dare to dart forwards. To touch her dress. Her boots. The murmur spreads. She’s real. She’s alive. Captured. Conquered by the Pathfinder. Jest like them.

The drums. The spectacle. The crowd. The tang of flesh, sharp with excitement. I feel the hot clench of red start to burn in my belly.

It’s the Cage at Hopetown as I entered to fight. It’s the gauntlet, that snakeroad of drug-crazy hands, eager to pull me apart. It’s Freedom Fields on that midsummer night, with Lugh staked out to burn. It’s the beat beat of fear, the beat of sticks on stones as I came to the Snake River camp.

I look fer any familiar face. Cassie, even Vain Ed the miller. But none do I see. It’s a blur of bodies an torchlight.

DeMalo meets me near the foot of the hill. He’s dressed
all in white. Of course. Britches, shirt an cloak. His black hair gleams. His skin’s golden in the torchlight. His face tightens when he sees what I’ve done, what I’m wearin. The rip in the magnificent marriage gown. My armour, my boots, Lugh’s necklace.

My beautiful bride, he says. His smile don’t reach his eyes. You brought your own entourage, I see, he says. I set Nero to fly. I slide down from Hermes. The wolfdog stays here, he says.

A flick of his hand brings a Tonton with a cord. I slip it around Tracker’s neck. Go, I tell him an he’s led away.

Then DeMalo holds out his hand to me. High. With ceremony. I lay my hand in his. He grips it painfully. He turns us so we face the crowd. As the drummers drum an the dawn creeps closer, the Pathfinder an his warrior bride move around the hill slowly. So’s all can look up an admire them.

It wouldn’t be obvious to nobody else. It is to me. DeMalo’s ill at ease. The first time I ever seen him so. You wouldn’t know from the calm of his face. But his eyes keep goin to the sky. To the clouds that tumble an shadow. Even as I wonder why, the answer comes to me. He needs the clear light of dawn fer his miracle. Dawnlight to trigger the Wrecker tech of the white walls. I know he won’t of left this to chance. He will of tested it. Probly more than once. But the master of control ain’t got no control over Mother Earth. When it
comes down to it, he’s at her mercy like the rest of us.

DeMalo never loses. He always has a safety net. But not today. The biggest day of all. His whole body’s tense. I feel it through his hand.

Disarm yer opponent if possible.

I look at him. Our eyes meet. I squeeze his hand. Fergive me, I says. The dress is beautiful. I ain’t bin myself the past while.

He nods, distracted. We’ll have our handfasting after the visions, he says.

It’s nearly dawn. The clouds have finally started to move, swept westwards by the wind. The sky behind looks clear.

It’s almost time, he says. As he leads me up the hill, Stewards an Tonton begin to fill its slopes. They want to be close to the show.

Know yer battlefield. Locate yer allies.

Nero’s perched on top of the vision room. My belly tight with nerves, I scan the crowd once more. Then I see them. Down to my right. Off to one side. Tommo, Peg an Webb. They’re guarded by Tonton. Roped at the wrists.

I thought they was in prison till we married, I says.

DeMalo don’t even glance their way. I want them to see this, he says. So they’re left in no doubt whose side you’re on.

By now he’s properly on edge. His eyes fixed to the sky, as the clouds move away. Slowly. Slowly.

You’ll stand at my side, he tells me. We’ve reached the top
of the hill. As our hands part, his silver bracelet catches my eye. He goes to git into position in the centre of the white room.

I pause beside a Tonton. I point to Tommo. That prisoner, I says. The boy. The Pathfinder wants him here, right now.

The Tonton pelts off down the hill, shovin his way through the gathered crowd. I wait till I see him seize Tommo an start rushin him up the hill.

I walk into the white room an stand near DeMalo. He’s in the centre, directly beneath the pinhole in the ceilin. He holds the great chunk of clear crystal rock, ready to raise it fer the light to latch on. It ain’t necessary, the walls do the work. But it looks good. Adds to the mystery.

At last it’s a cloudless sky. The marriage-day dawn is on the break. The drumbeats stop. The torches go out. A hush falls. Heavy with anticipation.

Tommo arrives at the top of the hill. Him an the Tonton outta breath from their haste.

The dawnlight’s about to hit the pinhole.

I speak loudly to DeMalo. I have a marriage gift fer you, I says. A bracelet to match the one you wear.

As he glances at me, distracted, I’m givin the nod to the Tonton. He thrusts Tommo forwards into my arms. Tommo looks at me, bewildered. Fergive me, I says.

I grab his roped wrists. I raise them high. I show DeMalo the bracelet. The identical twin of the one he always wears.
He stares at it. He looks at Tommo. His face turns ashy pale. Tommo stares at him in shock. At his father, so long believed dead. Father an son. Their likeness is strong. Seen here together, their kinship cain’t be denied.

An the vision has come to the smooth white walls. The bloom of dawn colours. The soft song of birds. The low sweetness of music.

A murmur of unease runs through the crowd. They all know how the visions come to life. The Pathfinder raises his crystal rock to receive them. The visions are playin. But the rock ain’t raised. The Pathfinder’s starin at this boy. Clutchin the rock to his chest. How is it possible? What’s goin on?

Tommo frees hisself from my grip. He takes a step towards DeMalo. Confusion an wonder war on his face.

You said you’d come back, he says. I waited fer you, Pa. I waited an waited. All these years I thought you was dead.

His words ring out among the smooth white walls. Everyone in earshot hears them. Tommo’s voice is rough an hoarse. The unmistakeable voice of a deaf boy.

It’s the Pathfinder’s son! His child! a man calls from somewhere on the hill nearby.

I nearly cry out his name. The surge of relief is so great. I stop myself jest in time. It’s Jack. He’s here. He came after all.

Word spreads. It spreads quickly. Down the hill. Through the meadow. Son? The boy’s deaf. Listen to him speak. It’s his son. The Pathfinder’s son is deaf.

A woman shouts out, The Tonton killed my sister becuz she couldn’t hear!

At the same time, there’s a risin buzz about the visions. The walls play without DeMalo. The grasslands, lush an green. The eagle. The mountains. The herds of beasts roamin the plains.