John Ringo - Against the Tide

“Hello, Joie,” Martin said, smiling.

“Hello, Martin,” Joie sighed, sadly. She was reclined on a long, narrow bed. “Let me guess, you want me to play the fallen angel again .”

“I’d love to, frankly,” Martin grinned. “But you’re not going to be playing with me, or anyone else, unless you want to. I need you to do me one more service and then you are free.”

Joie sat up on the bed and turned up the lamp, looking him in the eye coldly.

“Don’t play with me, Martin,” she said, her face working. “Do not do this to me. I don’t care what geas you have on me, I will kill you.”

“Free,” Martin said, extracting a small tube. “Here are your orders. Fly from here to the coast of Ropasa, the Breton coast.” He pulled out a map and pointed to the spot. “You can find it easily by following the Lore then heading north. There is a town at this river. Just up the coast is a house on a promontory. It has a widow’s walk and there is always a light that shines upward. You’ll have to make it there by dawn. Can you?”

“If I stuff myself,” the girl said.

“Stuff yourself, then,” Martin said, handing her the tube. “Take this. There’s a person at the house. Tell her ‘Jean has a long mustache’ and she will take care of you. The next night go down to the beach and carry a lantern. That will be Saturday. You must make it by Saturday.”

“I will,” Joie said.

“People will meet you on the beach. Give them the capsule and tell them you’re to be given transport. They’ll have to arrange it. Stay at the house until it’s time to leave. Never come back.”

“I won’t,” Joie said. “Trust me.”

“It’s a moonless night tonight,” Martin said. “You shouldn’t be spotted.”

“This is real?” Joie said, tears in her eyes.

“This is real,” Martin said with a nod. “It’s dangerous, though.”

“I don’t care,” Joie spat. “I’ve wished I was dead enough nights. To be free again. To be able to soar again.”

“You’re out of shape,” Martin worried.

“I’ll make it,” Joie said. “I’ll make it if I had to fly to Norau.”

“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Martin said with a lopsided grin. “Go now. Eat. Then leave.” He reached out and stroked the down on her cheek. “I know you won’t miss me, but I’ll miss you. Upon the completion of your mission you are freed of all geas, on my word as your owner. Now, go.”

Joie felt every day of her confinement as she flew. She had done push-ups in her room, trying to work her wings in the event she could break the expensive geas her first “master” had purchased to control her. But push-ups were not flying, and too many of her muscles were out of shape. She had tried to warm up slowly by being careful heading up to altitude. But she could not rest. Not if she was going to make it by dawn. She had to fly as hard as she ever had in her life and it had strained her to the utmost.

One thing that Martin didn’t know about her was that she didn’t need his directions. She had also opted for a navigational packageÑshe always knew “where” she wasÑand if she had a good idea where a location was she could fly to it almost unerringly. She avoided the Lore, which had many villages growing up along it, and headed straight for the coast, just north of its joining with the sea.

There, nearly out of energy and her muscles screaming, she banked north, a giant white bird against the lightening sky. She hadn’t been able to fly as fast as she’d hoped so the sun was already starting to peek up above the land. She ducked down to get out of the sunlight but she knew that some people must have seen her flying against the sky. Finally she spotted the house and stooped like an exhausted falcon into the garden in the back. With quick, if weary, steps she crossed to the door at the back and pounded on it, looking around at the pleasant herb garden and, even better, the high hedge that surrounded the house.

The door was answered by an old woman, at least three hundred if she was a day. She had gray hair that had remnants of red in it and a pinched face that still echoed a beauty of the old days. The woman looked at the giant bird-woman imperturbably.

“Yes?” the woman asked.

“Jean has a long mustache?” Joie asked. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Did anyone see you?” the woman snapped.

“Maybe,” Joie said, shrugging as only a woman with fifteen meter wings can. “But I sort of look like a really big bird when I’m flying.”

“Get in here,” the woman said, standing to the side.

Joie slipped through the door, pulling her wings in around her, and looked around. The kitchen was light and airy with a scrubbed table, copper pots, a large wood stove and hams and herbs hanging from the ceiling. It smelled strongly of onion, as if the floor had been washed with it.

That was about all the impression Joie got as the woman hustled her to a door and down into the basement. The basement was half filled with various oddments, bits of furniture that had waited for repair until they were dust, covered boxes, broken barrels. But the back half was filled with wine racks. The woman went to one of these and swung it back revealing a small room.

“In here,” the woman said.

“I’m starving,” Joie replied. “And I need to go to the beach tonight. It must be tonight.”

“We’ll see,” the woman replied. “Going to the beach does no one any good if the area is crawling with Change, girl. Go in there and I’ll find you some food. Quickly.”

Joie folded herself into the room, which was too low for her, and sat on a chair that was too small. The room was instantly dark but she fumbled on the table and found a match. The match led to a candle and the candle led to an examination of the room. There wasn’t much to it. A bed too short. A chair too small. A table too low. And a very short ceiling. It was apparently ventilated, but Joie couldn’t find from where. The woman returned with a large bowl of thick stew and a loaf of excellent bread and cautioned Joie to remain quiet no matter what she heard. After eating, Joie blew out the candle and settled down on the too short bed, pulling her wings around her for warmth and comfort.

Later she half remembered thumping but it passed from one bad dream to another where something was chasing her through the night. There was a silver cord around her heart and no matter how far or how fast she flew it couldn’t break. She awoke as the door slid back and the old woman waved at her.

“Lucky it wasn’t Changed,” the old woman said, much more friendly. “There was one Sniffer but with the herbs in the garden and the onion and pepper on the floor there was no way for him to pick up your scent. You were seen but no one was sure what you were. Most said a large seabird, maybe an albatross badly off-course.”

“I do not look like an albatross,” Joie said.

“No, you don’t.” The woman chuckled. “It’s nearly nightfall. You need more to eat?”

“If you please,” Joie said. “I might have to fly again tonight.”

The woman set her down to another bowl of stew and more bread but when Joie looked up piteously the woman sniffed and brought out cold chicken, more bread, more stew, until Joie finally waved her back.

“It takes a lot of energy to fly,” Joie said in embarrassment at the feast she had been served. The old woman had contented herself with one bowl of stew and a bite of bread.

“I can believe it,” the woman said, taking a sip of wine.

“My name’s Joie,” Joie said, filling up the silence. “What’s yours?”

“Mine is my own,” the woman replied with a grimace. “And yours is yours. No names. No names and no questions, that way if you’re caught you can’t give anything away. I take it you weren’t trained for this?”