Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

"True wolves," Nancy said, and Richard listened to the high-pitched wailing rise and fall, then nodded.

"We used to hunt them," Baj said, "- on horseback over snow when Lord Winter came down."

"And caught them?" Patience said.

"The dogs caught them, sometimes – often were sorry they had. Some archers on snow-foots could trail and kill wolves, if the drifts were deep enough… And a snow-tiger came to the river, once, though I didn't see him. Said to have bred in Map-Oklahoma."

"They came," Patience said, "- as your First-father's father came. Over the bridge of land from Map-Siberia."

"I believe that's so," Baj said. "It's what we were taught."

"I've heard of those tigers." Nancy'd spoken rarely through the evening. "Still lesser creatures than the great white bears that come down from the Wall."

"You insult my some-part daddy," Richard said, smiling the smile Baj had grown used to, "- who apparently was only a grizzled."

"I have never known," Patience said, "- what portions were placed and Talent-shifted in my mother's womb to make me."

"I know mine," Nancy said, then was quiet, looking into the fire.

"Well," Richard dug into his great pack. "I, and all my portions, are going to wreck our Baj at chess!"

… From then, through the game – a rare triumph for Baj – and till time to sleep, only the little fire spoke.

The next days traveling the mountains north – mountains running above the long valley Map-Shenandoah – they called "turkey time," since wild turkey-birds fed strutting under oaks growing in groves down the steep valleys. Errol took some with thrown sticks, and Baj took many with his bow – requiring an occasional tedious search to recover a stray arrow… They had wild mushrooms to eat – cautious of death-angels – and dug roots, berries, and rabbits. But turkey was the main.

"Is there nothing else, no red meat, living in these hills?" Claiming it a reminder of the penalty for pride and inattention, Patience had walked the ground with them most of that day, climbed as they'd climbed, and clambered with them through tangled underbrush… Now, she sat cross-legged in their clearing amid a stand of balsam fir, complaining while yet another big bird leaned on its peeled stick, smoking, skin popping in the heat of another cautious-laid pit fire. "- No red meat, and of course no salt."

"These foolish fires." Richard shook his head.

"Listen, Goodness," Patience said, "some of us have guts too elegant for raw bird. And anyone close enough to see the buried little fires we set, is close enough for any – but Baj – to have scented already."

"No salt," Nancy said, "- but we still have berries."

"Won't have them much longer." Richard poked the roasting bird with a finger. "Traveling north out of summer. Colder nights, already."

"Berries," Patience said, "- are poor fuel for rising in the air." It seemed to Baj that she was becoming again the self he'd seen sailing to kill Master MacAffee. Though her nose-spints were still tied in place, her left arm now was only slung. She moved with ease and no wincing, and her small face, that had been drawn, was rounded, relaxed as if she'd lost a year or two of age.

"I hope," she said, having noticed his attention, "- that I'm not about to receive another princely compliment."

"Wouldn't venture it," Baj said.

"Well," Patience leaned forward, sniffed at the roasting bird. "Well, I am feeling better."

"Time before supper," Nancy said, stood up and went off into the trees with her hatchet.

"Time for what?"

"I suppose," Baj said, "for lessons again."

In a while, Nancy came back with two strong green stick-swords cut and whittled. One gently curved, the other straight.

"Good boy," Patience said. "You've done what I asked for her."

"Get up," Nancy said, staring at Baj through firelight. "Get up and fight." It was the first she'd spoken to him in a while.

Baj stood, and stepped aside for room.

"Poor light for fencing," Patience said, "- but all the better."

A distance from the fire, Errol, always interested in fighting, sat up to see.

"They're good at points," Richard said.

"At 'points', dear one," Patience said, "there is no good or bad, but only strike and not be stricken. I thought all old soldiers knew that."

The fire's glow was in Baj's eyes; he looked aside to spare his seeing, and Nancy tossed his stick-sword to him.

Baj expected an attack, but didn't get it. Instead, the girl watched and waited, cautious and cold as a stranger, so they stood with their whittled branches, still as ice-people carved for a funeral.

"Well," Patience said, "- fight, or fuck!" And to Richard, "See how coarse I've grown in exile? I would never have said such a thing on the Common."

"It's the company you keep," Richard said, and they laughed (soprano and bass) as Nancy – now looking furious – bounded at Baj as if to kill him.

He could have hit her once… then another time. But only gave room and backed away over high grass, shadowed by firelight and cooler light as the moon rose over the mountains.

When the girl paused, panting, eyes gold as Kingdom coins, Patience, at the fire, set her scimitar aside and stood. "Well, girl," she said, "you've learned something. But never lose calm when you fight!".

She walked over to Nancy, and took the stick-sword from her. "Stand away, now, and watch how it should be done… and done weak-handed at that."

And saying so – not quite finished talking – she was at Baj in an odd strutting striding attack, much like a fighting rooster's for posture… then sudden flurries of speed, in which her slung left arm seemed little impediment.

She came at him, white hair shining in moonlight, dark eyes shadowed darker, and struck short snapping blows at odd angles, and quickly – pecking, is what it seemed – delivered so unevenly in succession that they were difficult to parry. She had a… a style of striking then hooking his reposte away, using her branch-blade's scimitar curve.

It was very elegant, very determined attacking, and Baj found himself fencing as he'd fought only once before, when the Achieving King had come to the salle to teach him his lesson.

The fir branches whipped and thrust and whickered together in swift counters, and Baj felt the cool exhilaration of accomplished great effort – felt that for several moments back and forth across the moonlit grass, came close twice to hitting her, and was considering drawing a pretend left-hand dagger when Patience stepped a little strangely, kicked him in the right knee – and as he staggered, hacked him hard to the side of his neck. Then there was a delicate little motion, barely a thrust at all, that would have picked his left eye out if she'd wished, and her splintered branch had been sharp steel.

Lame, Baj still recovered and stood on guard, though he would have been a dead man. Beyond the fire's light, Errol clicked his tongue.

"Well, my Baj," Patience smiled, "you're almost as good as you thought you were. Though… a little too attentive to your greenwood sword. After all, it's only an instrument of your will. Your will directs it, not your wrist. And, of course, fighting includes kicks and other things."

Baj saluted her with his branch, standing a little awkwardly, since his knee hurt. "Thank you for the reminding lesson, Lady. And all the more, weak-handed."

Patience tossed her branch aside. "Oh, well-enough with something so light, fencing a few passes… But you are dangerously good, fighting straight-bladed – those nasty thrusts and lunges – and even better, I suppose, with your familiar steel in your hand." She reached across to nurse her left shoulder. "When you're less concerned with artful parries, Baj, and recall your fighting dagger and that moccasin-boots are useful kickers, you'll be an unlucky young man for almost anyone to cross. I don't doubt you'd have a fair chance of killing me, then."