Wasteland Blues (10 page)

“Dumb bugs,” said Derek. “Even if they could, they’d die as soon as they got there.”

“Why, Der-Der?” asked Teddy.

“Cause there’s no air on the moon. They’d choke to death.”

“Oh,” said Teddy.

“How do you know?” asked John, his voice sullen. He didn’t like Derek’s dismissive tone.

“What’d you mean, how do I know?” asked Derek.

“You ever been to the moon?”

“Course not.”

“Then how do you know?”

“My father told me.”

“You mean your father went to the moon, then he came back and told you about it?”

“What the Hell’s wrong with you, John?” asked Derek, turning on him. “It was something he read about from the Before Times. One of the damn things he was always tellin’ me about.”

“But Leggy said there were men on the moon,” said John. “If there’s no air, how’d the men stay alive?”

Everyone turned to Leggy.

He coughed. “Well, I’m not too keen on the details, but I believe they had special suits. Special suits that helped them breathe.”

John shook his head. “You don’t know any better, either.” He rolled over and went to sleep.

***

The next day, Leggy had to abandon his wheelchair. The going had been getting steadily rougher. The land was sloping upward, and the ground was growing more tangled with brush and roots that snagged the wheels. In addition to gorse bush and stands of pine, the hills were alive with a profusion of greenery that was beyond even Leggy’s ability to indentify.

Thus far, Teddy had been able to manhandle Leggy over every obstacle, but even his great strength was waning, and the group’s progress was slowing.

Before mid-day, Derek called a halt. Teddy and Leggy were several hundred yards behind—again. Teddy was wrestling the chair through a particularly malicious tangle of trailing vine. The metal wheels of Leggy’s chair looked like a strange bouquet of green leaves and stems.

Derek strode back to meet them. “Time to pack up the chair, old man.”

Leggy looked up from the ground, where he’d been trying to search out a clearer path. Teddy stood behind him, panting and blowing.

“You’re slowin’ us up,” said Derek.

Leggy knew there was no argument.

“Ah, shit,” said the old man. He found himself reluctant to give up his chair, a feeling that surprised him. He’d never particularly cared for his wheelchair. It had always been cumbersome and uncomfortable, and in the last year or so strange bits of metal had begun to poke him in odd places, a sign that its frame was coming unaligned.

But now that the time had come to pack it up, he didn’t want to get out. And he certainly wasn’t looking forward to its replacement, the hard spine of a braying donkey.

“Time’s a wastin’,” said Derek.

“All right, all right,” said Leggy crossly. “Get them mules back here and let’s saddle up.”

Leggy watched from his wheelchair as the boys transferred Afha’s baggage to Minna, and then inexpertly applied the saddle to Afha.

“Tighten it up good,” said Leggy. “I don’t want to slip off on some steep mountain pass.”

Derek kneed Afha in the belly. The donkey brayed and exhaled, and Derek cinched the saddle an extra notch.

“Okay cowboy,” said Derek with a mocking grin, “mount up.”

Leggy motioned to Teddy, who lifted the man from the wheelchair and placed him gingerly on Afha’s back. The donkey took Leggy’s weight easily and didn’t seem to mind the rider.

Teddy handed Leggy his serape and a tattered old satchel that had hung behind the wheelchair to hold Leggy’s possessions, his whisky flask, pipe and tobacco, matches, and a pocketknife.

“How’s it feel?” asked John, as Leggy settled in to his new ride.

“Ain’t too bad, I guess,” said Leggy, “though I expect by the end of the day I’ll be singin’ a different tune.” He looked around for a moment and then asked Teddy to fold up the wheelchair and pack it on Minna’s back.

“What for?” asked Derek.

“What do you mean what for?” asked Leggy. “That’s my chair.”

“Yeah,” said Derek, “but we can’t take it.”

“Not take it? You expect me to spend the rest of my life on the back of a three-eyed donkey?”

Derek shrugged. “Don’t know. But look at it.”

Teddy had tried his best to collapse the chair, but it was rusted in sections and wouldn’t cooperate. Derek took it from his brother and approached Minna. “This one’s already got all the baggage. You expect her to carry this too? It’s heavy as shit, Leggy. And awkward to boot.”

Leggy licked his lips. He could see that Derek was right, though the son of a bitch didn’t have to enjoy it so much.

“Maybe we can hitch it up and wheel it along behind us,” said Leggy, already knowing it wouldn’t work.

Derek shook his head. “Sorry, Hoss. Either we leave the chair, or we leave you. Which is it gonna be?”

“Fuck,” shouted Leggy.

Afha shied a bit. John reached out and grabbed the donkey’s bridle, spoke soothingly to calm the animal.

“Fellas…” started Leggy, then stopped again.

Derek smirked. “You want us to leave you alone for a minute so you can say goodbye?”

Leggy said nothing. He wanted to punch the boy in the mouth. He yanked Afha’s bridle. “Let’s get this goddamn show on the road.”

And so they set off again, trudging higher into the hills, the mountains above them beckoning.

“Bye d’bye chair,” said Teddy with a wave.

Soon they had passed out of sight, and the metal wheelchair stood alone in the stubby undergrowth, where it would pass through the seasons one by one, a mystery for any who might come across it.

Chapter Fourteen

The next day they topped a high ridge and found themselves on a wide plateau, a natural border that signaled the end of the foothills and the start of the mountains in earnest. Their eyes boggled at the sight that greeted them. Green grass undulated in a slight breeze, and in the distance, vast stretches of pine and oak sat astride the mountains.

What they knew as grass in San Muyamo was brown and bristly and grew in scattered tufts. Here, knee-high green blades carpeted the plateau in unbroken waves. Derek reached down and plucked a blade. He stuck the shoot in his mouth.

“Beautiful,” said Leggy. “Let’s sit for a minute, boys.”

Teddy lifted him off Afha, and they sat in a circle, plucking at the grass and letting it caress them. The mules bent their nuzzles to the ground and ate, snorting with pleasure. The grass was a welcome change from the thistles and sour underbrush that had been their diet thus far.

John couldn’t appreciate the beauty of the landscape; his heart was still troubled. Life had been almost idyllic these past few days—plenty of clean water to drink, sweet cool air to breathe, fresh game turning up more and more often in their snares. But still he felt that their treatment of the angels—or moths, or whatever—had been a bad omen and would come back to them. He gnawed nervously on a bitter shoot, then spit it out.

“Let’s keep going,” he said.

He stood up and began to walk. The others followed. They hadn’t gone more than ten yards when Afha, who was being led by Teddy, pulled to a stop. The donkey brayed and shied. Teddy tugged at the guide rope. “C’mon, horsey, c’mon!” But the donkey would not be budged.

“Take it easy,” admonished Leggy, who was mounted on the donkey’s back. Minna stopped next to Afha.

Derek, who’d been bringing up the rear, came forward.

“Now what?” he asked.

“Horsey won’t go,” said Teddy with a shrug.

“The Hell it won’t,” said Derek. He bent to the grass and picked up a stout stick.

“Now wait a goddamn second,” said Leggy, his eyes wide. “You hit this donkey and it bolts, it’s my neck that gets broke.”

“Take him down,” said Derek, motioning to Teddy to lift Leggy off the donkey.

“Please,” said John. “Please don’t hit him. I’ll get him to come.”

He began to walk away from the group, trying to coax Afha forward with coos and whistles. Afha screeched and shook his head in agitation. The milky cataract of his third eye swirled.

“Come, Afha, come,” said John, striding forward in the high grass, snapping his fingers and whistling.

Suddenly John screamed and fell to the ground. Derek rushed forward and saw a flash of brown slithering through the grass.

“Snake,” he shouted. He bent to John, who was clutching his calf.

Teddy ran forward and stamped in a wide semicircle around his brother and John, hoping to kill, or at least scare off, any other snakes that might be in the grass. Leggy urged Afha forward. The donkey now cooperated.

“Lift me down,” Leggy said.

Teddy placed him next to John, whose face was pale and twisted with pain. Derek had already begun to cut away at John’s pants leg. Two puncture wounds were clearly visible in the scant meat of John’s calf, and blood trickled from them, bright red against John’s pale skin. Leggy unslung his water flask and poured water to clear away the blood.

He put his mouth over the puncture marks, then sucked and spat, hoping to remove any venom. He repeated the process several times, then tied a bandanna tightly around John’s leg, just above the wound.

“Anybody get a look at the varmint?” asked Leggy.

John shook his head. “Didn’t see it,” he said weakly.

“Brown,” said Derek, after rinsing his mouth with water from Leggy’s waterskin. “That’s all I saw. Didn’t look like any snakes back home, so I don’t know if it’s poisonous.”

Leggy removed his whiskey flask. He passed it to John, but John wouldn’t take it.

“Might help with the pain,” said Leggy.

John shook his head no.

Leggy shrugged, then poured a dose over the puncture marks. “I’ve got clean cloth in my pack,” he said. “Tear it into strips and let’s bandage this.”

Derek did so, and then eased John into a sitting position.

“How you doin’?” he asked.

“I…my leg. Feels like it’s burnin’,” said John. “The ground…spinning.”

Derek looked at Leggy.

Leggy stroked his chin. “He’ll hafta ride.”

“What about you?”

“I think that donkey can bear us both,” said Leggy.

“Okay, but where we goin’?” asked Derek. “He’s not fit for much travel.”

“I agree,” said Leggy, “but I want to get out of here. There might be more snakes around in all this grass. And I want a better place to camp. Let’s head to that tree line. It ain’t too far.”

They got John on Afha’s back. The young man was muttering to himself, and alternatively sweating and shivering. His calf had swollen to twice its normal girth.

“Let’s go,” said Leggy. “Keep your eyes peeled for a good campsite.”

***

They had been traveling for less than an hour across the plateau when Leggy spotted a rocky outcropping near a stand of dwarf pines. The air was sweet with the scent of their needles.

“That might be a good spot,” he said, pointing the party toward the outcropping.

As they drew nearer they were surprised to see a dog come at them through the tall grass. It was large and fast, and it growled menacingly. It stopped twenty yards from them, barking and baring its teeth. Short brown fur bristled along its back, and it slobbered as its beady eyes dared them to take another step. The party halted. Minna brayed nervously.

“Step aside,” said Derek, unholstering the sawed-off shotgun that he’d gotten from the Paladins. “I’ll blow its goddamn teeth out.”

The shotgun was an American Eagle smoothbore. Silas had wanted to give it to Leggy, but Leggy had seen the gleam of desire in Derek’s eyes, and he knew he’d save himself some trouble if he just gave it to the boy outright. Corrin had reluctantly helped Derek clean off the rust which was threatening to set into the hammer, had showed him how to break down, clean, and oil the weapon. He’d even helped him saw ten inches off the barrel, making the gun easier to manage, more maneuverable, and deadlier at close range. Now Derek carried it in a holster on his back, a belt of nearly a dozen precious shells around his waist.

“Wait,” said Leggy. “I believe that dog belongs to someone.”

A leather harness was strapped across the dog’s chest and back. It looked as if it were designed either to hook the dog to something or for holding the dog as you walked.

“I don’t care,” said Derek. “Feral or not, we don’t have time to return stray dogs to their owners.”

“He’s not stray,” said a high, clear voice.

A woman stood on a boulder near the copse of trees. She had long white hair, and wore a homespun shirt and breeches. She also cradled a long-barreled rifle in her arms.

***

Derek regarded the woman. There was something odd about her face. She didn’t look like a mutie, but something wasn’t right. He put that thought aside and considered the shotgun in his hands. She was a good thirty or forty yards away, well out of his range. He might get the dog, but she’d have a clear shot at him if she were any good with a rifle. He wasn’t ready to find out.

“Call him off then,” said Derek roughly. “We’re in a hurry.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“What’s it to you?” called Derek.

“This land belongs to my mother, and strangers aren’t allowed to pass without her say.”

Derek opened his mouth to tell her where she could stick her say, but Leggy cut him off.

“Our friend’s snakebit,” he said. “We’re trying to find a place to camp, so we can treat him.”

The woman frowned. “How long ago was he bitten?”

“Not long. But fever’s set in, and he’s getting delirious.”

“Did you see what kind of snake it was?” she asked.

“Not a good look. But we think it was a brown one.”

“Do you have medicine?” she asked.

“We have aspirin, for the fever,” said Leggy. “And whiskey for the wound. But nothing for the bite. We need to make a fire, keep him warm, let him rest. Give his body a chance to fight the venom.”

“He’d be dead before morning,” said the woman. “You’d better come with me.”

“Where?” asked Derek.

“To see my mother. She’s a wise woman and good with medicines.”

Derek scowled at the woman and her dog. Who the hell was she? What if this was a trick? But he could feel John shivering behind him, the fever-heat coming off him like a clay oven.

Derek spat into the grass. “How far is your place?”

“Not far,” said the woman. “Just over the next rise.”

“Your dog,” said Derek, nodding toward the animal.

The woman whistled, high and piercing. The dog, which hadn’t taken its eyes off the strangers, turned and ran toward her. He bounded onto the rocky outcropping and then stood by his master. The woman reached down and took the handle of the harness. Derek watched as the dog led her down to the grass, picking the easiest route through the pines. Suddenly Derek realized what had bothered him about her. When she was standing on the stone, the setting sun had been shining directly into her face, but she had made no move to shade her eyes. Why should she? She was blind.

She came forward, led by the dog, and walked right to Ahfa’s side. She placed her rifle in Leggy’s arms, then reached up a hand and stroked John’s cheek. He murmured incoherently. She stroked him with her hands, running her palms and fingers across the contours of his face, then came to rest with one hand on his forehead, the other on the back of his neck.

“His fever’s bad,” she said, finally taking her hands away and retrieving her rifle. “Follow me.” She moved off into the grass, lightly holding the dog’s harness.

***

They followed her through a clever hidden trail of pathways and hills and soon found themselves amidst a small herd of goats. The woman clucked and cooed to them, and the goats pooled in around her, matching her stride. Another dog, larger than the first, bounded into view. Its long gray hair was knotted, making the beast resemble a wet mop. It ignored the strangers, instead patrolling the herd. It nipped at lagging goats and dashed back and forth, defining a perimeter for the herd to remain in.

The group crested a low rise. The grass had been cleared for a homestead—a simple, solidly built cabin with a stone chimney, a large pen for the goats, and a shed. Leggy noted firewood stacked in neat cords, a small kitchen garden, and several fowl patrolling the front yard. The homestead itself was nestled against a rocky hillside that ascended at a nearly vertical angle for hundreds of feet. He watched as the sheepdog drove the goats into the pen. The guide dog led the woman to the gate, and she closed it and fastened it, then turned to the travelers.

“One of you bring your friend inside,” she said, gesturing to the cabin. “You can hitch your mules around the back of the house. There’s a post and a trough there.”

Derek took John from Ahfa’s back and carried him to the dooryard. “You two take care of the mules and then come inside,” he said to Teddy and Leggy. “And make it quick.”

Teddy and Leggy did as they were told. Then Teddy lifted Leggy and carried him around to the front, and only, door. Teddy had to stoop as he went inside. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness of the one-room cabin. When they did, they saw the stone fireplace at one end of the room, a small fire burning in the hearth. A cast-iron kettle bubbled over the flame. Dried herbs hung in bunches from the roof, giving the cabin a pleasant odor.

John lay stretched across a rough wooden table that dominated the middle of the cabin, and a wrinkled crone unwound the bandage from his calf. She probed the wound with her fingers, and laid a gnarled hand on John’s brow. She nodded to herself.

“You’re not too late,” she said. “It was a brown snake, wasn’t it?”

“Think so,” said Derek.

“Yes. The venom from a brownie’s bite moves slow. It wants to get at the heart, to
squeeze
it, but it takes its time. He’s lucky, your friend. If it was a greenie or a diamondback?” She fixed them with a sharp eye, “Best you could do is check his pockets and start digging.” She mimed working a shovel, then cackled.

“So you can help him?” asked Leggy, feeling foolish being held in Teddy’s arms.

“I can. But can you?” asked the crone.

“Can we?” asked Derek.

The old woman rubbed the tips of her fingers together. “What’s his life worth to you?”

“Mother,” said the blind woman.

“Hush daughter,” said the crone. “I’m doin’ business. What’s the coin of your realm, eh?” she asked Derek.

***

Derek pulled his father’s wedding band from his finger. He held it in his palm for a moment, the last token of his old life, the final link to his parents. Then he tossed it to the crone. She snatched it from the air like a bird of prey, and examined it closely, even more closely than she’d examined John.

“Will that do?” asked Derek.

“Bring me my pestle,” said the crone to her daughter, “and the kettle, and clean strips of cloth.” Then, to the visitors, “You call me Mother Morgan. That skinny thing is Magdalena.”

Soon the cabin was a bustle of activity. The crone worked with practiced ease, creating a smelly concoction from the various plants hanging above their heads, fermenting in bottles, or scraped from old pots in one corner of the room. She was assisted by her daughter, who moved with quiet efficiency about the room, never once stumbling or tripping over anything, even the travelers’ bags that had been dropped unceremoniously on the floor. The young woman fetched up a chair for Leggy, so that he could sit without being cradled by Teddy.

“Did you treat the bite at all?” asked the old woman.

Derek explained about sucking out the poison and applying a tourniquet.

“Hmph. We need to drain this wound.” She produced a small knife from her belt, held the blade in the flame of a candle for a count of thirty, and then made a series of thin incisions just above each puncture. Blood and pus began to seep from the cuts. John moaned.

Mother Morgan applied a sticky paste to several strips of clean cloth, and bound up John’s wound. “This will draw the poison out,” she said. “Now, take him off the table and put him over by the fire.”

Magdalena spread a blanket near the hearth, and they laid John on the floor.

“What’s his name?” asked Mother Morgan.

“John,” said Leggy.

“Sit him up,” said the old woman to Magdalena, who obeyed.

Mother Morgan bent and pressed a cup into his hands. “Hear me, John. This is Mother speakin’. Drink this. It will help your insides.”

John did as he was told. When he’d drained the cup, he lay back on the blanket, his eyes fluttering. He caught sight of Magdalena and tried to lift himself up, but then settled weakly back to the floor, muttering under his breath. In a moment he was asleep.

The crone rubbed her hands. “Sleep, boy. Sleep and my poultice will be your best cure.” Then she turned to her visitors. “And now that my table is free again, we’ll set out some supper.”

David Cane’s ring hung loosely on her bony finger.

***

As Magdalena set out the supper, Mother Morgan sat in a high-backed chair, smoked a thin pipe, and listened to Leggy explain their journey, occasionally casting a critical remark at the girl’s preparations.

Soon enough supper was ready—goat’s milk cheese, wild rabbit stew with carrots, and green beans from the kitchen garden. Leggy watched as the boys set to. He was hungry, and the food looked so good it almost hurt, but something wasn’t setting right with him. The old woman noticed.

“No appetite, eh? This good-for-nothing girl’s a terrible cook. I’ve tried to teach her, but she doesn’t take to learning, do you daughter?”

Magdalena said nothing.

“No,” said Leggy. “It’s fine.” He bent and began to eat in earnest, hoping to spare the girl from the old woman’s sharp tongue.

When they had finished, Magdalena cleared the table with a brisk efficiency, then stood near her mother, hands clasped in front of her.