Mitchell Smith: Moonrise

The Ancient had smiled his gummy smile. "I know, young lord," he said. "- I know it's easier for me to speak of these things, than for you, a boy, to hear them." Another teetering adjustment on the high stool. Couldn't be comfortable for him. "And I know something more – two things. First, you will be at best a competent poet. And second, your First-father's strength and your First-mother's gentleness will always war within you, and to your benefit."

Bajazet had cleared his throat, and said, "Thank you."

The old man had nodded, and lifted the poem's pages. "- And this? To the queen… or the stove?"

"Keep warm," Bajazet had said, "- dear and honored sir."

"Keep warm." A courtesy and blessing now poorly returned by Lady Weather, since it began to rain. An end-of-winter rain, but cold, and drifting in soaking curtains through the woods. – Uncomfortable, and lucky, destroying his tracks and his scent for the hounds. It would mean some difficulty and delay for the king's men… Bajazet unfastened his bow-string, coiled it, pushed it down into his pack, and tucked the quiver's soft cover up and over the arrows' fletching.

Then he climbed on through wet woods, water dripping from his cloak's hood, soaking it at his shoulders and down the front. The rapier and dagger sheaths were packed with oiled sheeps' wool; it would keep the steel a good while, even in wet weather – though it was hard to imagine the weapons as useful, should Boston's feral creatures have decided to follow.

… By evening, he heard voices calling that he almost recognized, voices barely heard above the rain, the steady patter of water dripping from the trees. He heard the voices, and knew it was a bad thing to be hearing them. There were certainly no familiar voices in the woods.

He looked for things to eat – chewed a while on a leather lacing from his shirt. He looked for mushrooms, for an animal to kill, turning in slow circles sometimes, before walking on… and was glad when darkness came, so he could look no longer, and be disappointed.

He stopped walking in a little brambled clearing, out from under the dripping trees. The rain gusts felt better than that constant dripping. He took off bow and quiver, pack and weapons, wrapped himself in the cloak – cold and soaked heavy – and lay down to sleep. Soon, it seemed the rain was a warm rain, lulling, protecting and hiding him.

He dreamed of flying – flying in rain, but that rain cold and blowing, making flying difficult. Dreamed of that, and was pleased it was too dark for hawks to hunt him, too wet for owls.

… I'm up Shit's Creek. With that so-ancient Warm-time phrase scribbled across his mind, Bajazet woke drenched and shivering to the last of dawn's fog, the beginning of a bright and sunny day… I am up the creek. Which left only the question of troubling to stand, or not. Putting on his pack, shouldering bow and quiver, buckling sword-belt on… or not.

To lie starving seemed oddly too much trouble, too full of shame and sorrow, so – gasping, unsteady as an old man – he climbed to his feet, staggering under the sodden cloak's frigid weight. He stumbled in half-circles to pick up and sling his pack, bow and quiver – arrow fletching soaked – and with some difficulty, managed the buckle of his weapons' belt. Damned thing…

Ready, sure he'd left nothing behind, he started away, bent under his wet cloak's weight. Had to wear it, of course; the wool would warm him, even wet. Had to wear it…

Bajazet started up-slope, the thud and jingle of swift pursuing cavalry on his mind. The king would be riding silent, saying nothing, perhaps remembering his son's toddler days… His officers would be silent as well, afraid of him. And out in front a Warm-time mile, foresters – trackers in the mottled green of Lady Weather's short-lived daughter, warm-hearted Summer – would be trotting bent, searching by Confusion's shallow water… the woods along the way. And finding confirmation enough.

Awkward shuffling steps were the only ones Bajazet could take as he climbed the apron of an eastern hill. Strides and jog-trotting were as unlikely for him as flight. He imagined coming to some improbable canyon that would bar the way of cavalry and a relentless king, but allow him to stumble past.

"Imagination," he said aloud, then imagined he was being watched. To the right, the narrow creek rattled down, elbowing stones. To the left, brambles and brush… several evergreens, now.

He thought he might be being watched from behind – some forester having gone running at the chase's start, running ahead of all others, seeing a capful of gold, a grateful king's tears of thanks and satisfaction. Even an estate, perhaps, in the Clearings in Map-Tennessee. Tribal serf-girls, Finches or Mockers, to come sullen to his bed… then, after a while, calling out, baring their filed teeth in sudden pleasure.

Bajazet stopped and turned to look back. His hand was on his rapier's hilt – a gesture only. Any strong man, well fed, could come to him now and knock him down. Then take him to such a grateful king… and the avoiding eyes of cavalry officers as he was hung by his heels to be carefully skinned, then rolled in a patch of salt brought from the shores of the Gulf Entire.

Bajazet stood watching the way he'd come… and saw only morning's sunny woods, the light of a warming day flashing diamonds off raindrops still hanging in the branches.

He turned to walk again – and saw beneath a bare bramble, the eye, small and brown, that examined him.

He was almost certain what it was as he leaped for it – a convulsion of speed and strength that surprised him while still in the air, cloak flapping. A small thing – a young rabbit, frozen still by the ancient command of the best thing to do when come upon. And stillness had been best, before discerning man.

Bajazet got his left hand on it – hooked its downy brown fur. Grabbed it as it tried to squirm away, late, an age too late.

The brambles scratched and tore his face and forearms as he fell into them, the little animal kicking in his grip. He rolled free, holding the rabbit up. It struggled, peed in terror as he fumbled for his dagger.

The slender steel was out, and Bajazet knelt trembling in haste, and cut the little creature's throat. Its soft muzzle opened as he killed it… then skinned it with blade and teeth, licking blood, spitting out soft tufts of fur.

Groaning with impatience, Bajazet snapped flint and steel into a handful of his tinder, added shreds of underbark, and knelt puffing for a hasty fire. Its minor flames then only used to dip bloody pieces in – meager meat, frail bones, a small damp gout of bowel. All dipped into the fire as for a short blessing, then devoured as Bajazet, trembling, wept like a child for the little creature, its smallness, innocence, and sudden dreadful death. He ate, tears tracking down his dirty face, then chewed bloody scraps of fur, chewed and splintered the last tiny bones.

Finished, nothing left but indications on bloody ground, he lay curled on his side in the sun for a sudden snoring nap.

… And woke, perhaps only a glass-hour later, to a different world. A world of no half-heard familiar voices, no aching belly, no stumbling or dizziness. In this richer world, that seemed now as complete, as promising as once it had been, he got to his feet with no grunt or groan of effort.

He stamped his small fire out, gathered his goods, turned uphill and strode away. In this warmer, brighter world, it seemed possible he might live longer… might travel and travel – surely shoot an unlucky deer, a wild pig or two – and after several Warm-time weeks, even reach the Ocean Atlantic, beyond the grasp of the most revengeful king. Gareth Cooper could not, after all, chase forever.