Gear, W Michael - Novel 05 (89 page)

 
          
 
Richard froze, muscles still straining,
Trudeau's ear stretched tight in blood-stained teeth.

 
          
 
"Dick, damn it! Turn him loose!"
Travis snapped. "That, or I'll whack ye a good one!"

 
          
 
Richard turned loose, rolled back on his
haunches, then flopped onto his back to spit blood and saliva. He wiped his
mouth and lay there, panting. Trudeau shuddered for breath, his mangled right
hand going to his bruised throat, the left to his bloody ear.

 
          
 
"Sacre enfant du grace!" whispered
one of the engages. "If I did not see, I would not believe!"

 
          
 
"Break it up!" Green ordered, waving
his hands like shooing geese. "Go on! Morning comes early. Fun's over for
tonight."

 
          
 
Willow
had dropped down to one knee and dabbed at
the blood running from Richard's nose. He winced at her touch, his half-burned
hand cradled on his lap. His eyes had an oddly drained look as he stared at
something far, far away, and mumbled, "I'm not a dog . . . not
anymore."

 
          
 
Toussaint remained, head cocked, hands on his
hips as he studied Trudeau, who lay curled on his side, gasping.

 
          
 
Baptiste gestured. "Come on, Toussaint.
Let's get Trudeau down to the river. Reckon a dunking ain't a gonna hurt him
none."

 
          
 
They bent down, pulling the blood-spattered
boatman to his feet. As they walked off with Trudeau staggering between them,
Travis heard Toussaint say, "When did zee little chick learn to fight like
zee rooster?"

 
          
 
"Travis?" Green asked, finger
flicking back and forth like a blind man's cane. "I take it this is all
over?"

 
          
 
"Reckon so, Dave." And Travis
couldn't help but smile as if it would break his face in two.

 
          
 
As Green walked off for his tent, he could be
heard to mutter, "
Massachusetts
gentleman? My ass!"

 
          
 
Willow
lay in her blankets and stared up into the
cloud-black night sky. They'd crossed the
Cannonball
River
the morning before. The French called it Le
Bulet, for the round stones that littered the bottom of the channel. From what
Green told her, the Whites had giant guns that could shoot such huge bullets
for as far as a man could see. By now, she knew better than to be skeptical of
such fantastic stories.

 
          
 
The first of the birds were chirping in the
trees, a sure sign that the morning call of "Levez! Levez!" was near.
She could hear someone stirring a fire and the sound of metal scraped on metal
as the pots were laid out.

 
          
 
Willow
turned her head to see Richard. His ghostly
face was calm now, but in the night his muted cries had awakened her. Only
after she'd reached out and taken his un-burned hand had his sleep deepened.
She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand, comforted by the touch.

 
          
 
What dreams had haunted him?
Boston
, with its lighted windows and all the
people dressed in fine cloth? She'd listened to his descriptions, trying to
place building after building, some with floors on top of other floors like a
human beehive. Did the image conjured in her mind even come close to the way
Boston
really looked?

 
          
 
All of those women, drowning in layers of
fabric until they can barely move. What do they think of so weighted with
cloth, living their whole lives in wooden and rock boxes? Easier to imagine
Cannibal Owl swooping over the peaks, looking for anyone who slept in the open,
than to imagine living all of one's life inside a box.

 
          
 
She tightened her grip on Richard's hand as
she remembered the aftermath of the fight with Trudeau. Like crossing a
mountain, it marked a divide that she recognized but could not fully
understand. He had fought for more than himself. He had fought for her, and
that changed everything.

 
          
 
"I can't believe that was me,"
Richard kept repeating over and over as she wiped the blood from his face and
daubed poultice on his burned hand.

 
          
 
It was you, warrior. Your courage is rising to
match the puha hidden in your souls.

 
          
 
Someone coughed, one of the engages, and the
faint burr of snoring carried on the cool morning. At the river, ducks quacked
back in the reeds.

 
          
 
I only wish I could stay to see you find all
of yourself

 
          
 
She shifted onto her hip to see him better.
Only here, in the secret gloom of predawn, could she allow the longing in her
souls to show. Only now, when no one might witness, could she allow herself to
want him until the ache within her finally brought tears.

 
          
 
And that is a lesson for you, Heals Like A
Willow. Coyote's lesson. The time to leave has come. For, if you don't, you
will slip into his robes some night.

 
          
 
She'd imagined that enough times to know how
it would unfold. His eyes would go wide as her fingers stilled the question on
his lips. In the beginning he'd fight weakly, trying to protest as she loosened
his clothing with her other hand.

 
          
 
She understood him thoroughly, knew that his
protests would drop to a murmured "No" that he'd repeat over and over
as she pressed herself against him.

 
          
 
He'd gasp when her fingertips traced around
his testicles, and found that sensitive place on the underside of the penis.

 
          
 
Lying here now, separated in the predawn
darkness, she could see the expression in his eyes as they joined, the question
within his soul struggling against the need of his manhood. Such a vision, as
clear as if it had happened moments ago. A trick of the soul's longing. A
perfect memory of what would never be, despite the warm aching in her loins.

 
          
 
If only you had asked me to stay, Ritshard.

 
          
 
At that moment, he smiled in his sleep, and
mumbled. Mostlit sounded like gibberish, and then he said, "Laura . . .
Laura .

 
          
 
The effect was like ice water dashed on a warm
body. But then, the world was not a perfect place. Coyote had ensured that just
after the Creation.

 
          
 
She said. "I can't be a fool any
longer," and gently untangled her fingers from his. She slipped from her
blankets and rolled them. Her packs lay where she'd left them, ready for the
long journey ahead. One by one, she shouldered them for the short walk to the
horses.

 
          
 
At the edge of the trees, she stopped, closed
her eyes against the pain, and whispered, "Some canyons are too deep to
cross, Ritshard. If our differences are too great even for us, how will your
people and mine ever find peace?

 
          
 
"Torn
Apo
bless and keep you safe. May the spirits
guide you on your journey back to your Laura, and this
Boston
."

 
          
 
Then she slipped into the trees, following the
trail that led to the horse picket. Her mountains lay many days' ride to the
west. Dangers would lurk on all sides, but she would manage to find her way.
With any luck the way of the land would prove more kind than the way of the
heart.

 
          
 
Like Ritshard, she was going home, to her
native land and people. Once there, she would weave the loose strands of her
life back together, the way the old stories taught.

 
          
 
She had reached out, and the misty white
spirit dog had bitten her. He'd been Coyote after all. And perhaps, somewhere
in her distant mountains, she would discover a way to heal this newest wound.
After all, she was Dukurika, and, for a woman of the People, anything was
possible.

 
          
 
In the distance, she could hear a chorus of
coyotes as their wailing song rose and fell in the still morning air.

 
          
 
This time, she promised, they weren't singing
for her.

 
          
 
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