Mitchell Smith - Moonrise

Baj heard no soft scuttling behind him, Errol not coming after as he often did – perhaps for the first bleeding fruits of the hunt. Perhaps for weasel reasons of his own.

… The Tuscaroras were not the mountains of the south. Though a little lower, these were cold-country mountains, cloaked with thick evergreens as if for warmth. Which made easier climbing in a way, with frequent handholds in dangerous places along cliff-rims, on rubble-slides. Easier in that way, more difficult in another, where almost every clearing, every slope required ducking through hemlocks' green fronds, so Baj hunted damp as if under rain.

On these tree-thatched heights, open only to the sky above, it was a relief to recall the wide fields the copy-locomotive had rolled through on its way to their celebration – though chugging by slaves' sweat only, and past the cries of children bereft… Wonderful Warm-time word, bereft.

Birds were Baj's only company through the morning. Very small gray-brown birds, and very fat, that chirped among the evergreens… liking especially, it seemed, to perch high on tender twigs that bowed and swung in the mountain wind.

There were occasional whistles of distant conies or marmots denned in rockfalls. "A fat marmot," Baj said aloud, "- would not be despised." He imagined Mountain-Jesus listening from where he hung impaled, perhaps by Shrikes, on his immortal evergreen. Listening, and commanding a marmot to show itself to be killed, cooked, and eaten.

Baj climbed, went carefully along a crumbling rim – from this, at least, there was a longer view than green branches and little birds. A view east… past the humped shoulders of other mountains, to only a suggestion of green levels and lowlands, so distant an horizon it seemed it might edge the very Ocean Atlantic… Ranchers, Patience had said, ran sheep and spotted cattle down that eastern territory. Farmers grew barley and rye. Civilized country in its way, though certainly bowing to Boston more often than not – and nothing like Middle Kingdom, its Great Rule from Map-California to Map-Missouri, and south to the Mexican Sierras. Still, the east apparently not all wilderness.

… Standing on broken stone a little later, with only air and a sailing raven to his right, Baj glanced up as if a finger beneath his chin had tilted his head, and saw an animal looking down at him from a towering stone chimney much more than a bow-shot away. A sheep.

Not a sheep gone wild. He was certain of a close brown coat, as well as curls of heavy horns as it turned away in no hurry, climbed a wall perpendicular, and was gone. Mountain sheep – which Baj had heard described, but never seen – that must have drifted, over the centuries, two thousand Warm-time miles from the Map-Rockies. And found this rare palace of granite amid soft green.

There was no chasing up that cliff. Baj shrugged to settle his pack, and minding his footing – grateful he was wearing moccasins rather than hard-sole boots – began to climb to the left around that chimney's immense base… up and over what rock shelves he came to, keeping the granite height to his right as he slowly half-circled it, sweating in a cold breeze.

Even half-circling that monument, was WT's "slow-going," and took him deep into windy after-noon, when the ram and his ewes were probably already gone to other grazing. But Baj kept to it, since it seemed nothing else in the mountains was stepping closer to his bow.

Foolish… foolish… foolish. A chant other hunters had certainly muttered to themselves, chasing odd animals from first times to these times. The reason, he supposed, that men – women insisting? – had finally settled to growing southern wheat and northern barley.

Baj stopped to breathe, leaning against the great chimney's sun-warmed stone, and swung his pack off his back, untied his tarred-wood canteen – unplugged it, and took three swallows… A shadow came flitting over, its dark mark sliding across the rock. He thought it might be Patience… then saw a hawk, a red-shoulder, swinging away into deeper blue.

Baj supposed he was happy. Certainly felt happy. It seemed that this traveling through mountains was bound to continue forever – or at least a good while longer – and, in justice, shouldn't end with him being killed. With Nancy being killed. Shouldn't end with any of them dying.

It seemed strange enough that his brother was dead, that Newton smiled… nowhere. That Newton worked grimly as he'd always worked at any task set for him… nowhere. And was breathing – as Baj now breathed the chill mountain air – nowhere. It seemed so unlikely, as if there'd been a simple error in the loom when this year's time was woven.

Baj put his canteen away, shouldered his pack, and moved on, thinking that surely this granite tower must have an end to circling, must meet the rest of the mountain somewhere.

There'd be no use mentioning the mountain sheep to the others, only so they'd know of the shot he'd lost, the mutton they wouldn't have for supper – a second supper of that meat, since Copy-town. And, truth was, he hadn't minded eating turkey through those many days coming past the Gap-Cumberland. Had pretended to, of course… Still, spotted-cow beef was the best of meats, done not too brown. The best but for Talking-meat, old people said – old people, and a few brute barons far upriver, who still filed their teeth sharp as any tribesman's.

Rounded the tower, and up a last pitch of winter-broken stone, Baj paused to rest and look over and down sweeping steep meadows where clusters of pine and hemlock grew stunted, bent south by northern gales. There were, of course, no mountain sheep to be seen under bright sunshine, broken as clouds streamed high over the range.

Reminded by the breeze's bite, Baj stared north, looking for the distant white line of the Wall. Too distant, supposedly running along the top of this Map-Pennsylvania. From here, even this high, he saw only green.

The meadows made a change from rubble-stone, and, of course, easier going downhill. Baj stepped along swiftly, his strung bow over his shoulder – and had passed a stand of pine to his right, when he heard an odd scraping sound, glanced toward it, and saw the mountain-sheep ram standing a long shot away, staring at him.

The ram pawed the ground, tossed his head as if he might come butt Baj off his mountain. Four… five other sheep drifted from the pines behind him.

A wasp, or bee, hummed past Baj… then went buzzing down the meadow.

The ram stood where he was, his flock shifting, nervous… It was too long a shot, and there seemed no clever way to make it shorter, so Baj began to walk across the meadow to them, walking slowly… and bent a little, to seem smaller. As he went, he eased the bow off his shoulder, reached back for an arrow, and nocked it to the string. Not many broadheads left…

The ram took a step or two toward him, tossed his heavy-horned head again. Beautiful animal… short light-brown coat. Streaks of lighter color in it. Baj could see the ram's topaz eyes – there was no fear in them – and he imagined himself being butted along the slope. From prince, to festival clown.

As if he'd shared that vision, the ram trotted several fast steps to meet him – and doing so, came into the bow's range. Still a long shot, but one that could be made… Baj stood still, drew, but didn't shoot. The ram stared at him, pawed the rough meadow grass, and took several swift steps closer with an innocent courage that knew nothing of curved glued wood-and-horn, knew nothing of hammered steel, sharpened for an arrow-head, nothing of fletching an arrow's perfect shaft.

It was unfair. Baj looked past the ram to the others – saw what seemed another male, younger and shyer, standing skittish with the ewes – raised his bow and took that long and unlikely shot, knowing it to have been a boy's decision.