Alan Garner - Red Shift

“You crazy?” said Magoo.

“No, but Macey is. And when he turns on, he ain’t exactly quiet, neither.”

“Right,” said Magoo.

“Surprise is all we got,” said Face.

“They don’t know that,” said Logan.

“I’ve been in,” said Buzzard. “They don’t want trouble, but they’re sure scared.”

“And they don’t come more dangerous than them,” said Face.

“Go talk to them,” Logan ordered Buzzard. “Say we’re a patrol and we’ve a wounded man. That’ll cover Macey. But don’t let them open the gate. Say there’s Mothers about.”

“You may not be fooling,” said Magoo.

“Go with him,” said Logan, “and as soon as Macey’s across them thorns, you and Buzzard drag the tent over. It’s deployed?”

“Yessir.”

They went through the forest towards the camp.

Face twisted a harness round Macey’s shoulders, holding him upright against a tree. Logan worked the leather down to Macey’s elbows. “Keep close behind that trunk,” he said.

“You bet,” said Face.

“What you want for light, kid?” said Logan. “There’s a moon.”

“No!” Macey struggled.

“Steady,” said Logan. “Not yet. We gotta have light. Stars OK?”

“Yes.”

“Well, look there, kid. If that ain’t old Orion up in the sky. Can you see his belt? Three bright stars. Which of those pretty little stars are you going to be?”

Voices, not loud, came from the camp.

“Take no notice,” said Logan. “You choose yourself a pretty twinkling star on Orion’s belt. OK?”

“OK.”

“Which one?”

“—Mintaka.”

“Mintaka. Right. Now you keep watching old Mintaka, and see that son of a bitch don’t run away.”

Logan took out of his cloak a small wheel from a horse trapping. It was held between two prongs like the rowel of a spur.

“You keep looking at Mintaka: and catch hold of that sword now.”

Face gripped the harness and pressed his head and body against the opposite side of the tree. Logan spun the wheel, flickering starlight. He stroked the rim with an accustomed measure, evenly turning the spokes, their invisible shadows glimmering Macey’s eye.

The voices at the camp argued, but there was no alarm.

“Go, Macey. Mintaka, baby. Go, kid.”

Macey shook.

“Go, baby, go.” The hand caressed, the wheel spun. “Go, baby.”

Face frowned at Logan, puzzled.

“Mintaka. Mintaka. Stay loose, kid. You gotta go.”

Macey’s eye was open. Logan stopped speaking. The sound between them was the thin ring of the wheel.

“Mintaka, baby.”

Macey sagged in his harness, his head drooped.

“I can’t make it.” He was crying. “I can’t flip.”

“Get down with the others,” Logan said to Face. “Be ready.”

“But he’s—”

“Get down.” Logan twisted the harness into his own hand, and put the wheel away. “Get down.”

“Sir, he ain’t safe for one man.”

“I’m ordering you.”

Face backed off until he was clear.

“What is it, kid? You want to try the moon?”

“The moon’s axe edge,” sobbed Macey.

“Yeh! Those are your words, kid! You’re remembering!”

“I am the one the moon’s axe spares—”

“Great! Great!”

“No, sir. I can’t flip with no axe, no smooth hard axe. Not now.”

“But it’s safe, kid. Stay loose. You’ve got the axe from way back.”

“It don’t talk to me no more.”

Logan bit on the harness, his look upon the glow of the camp. Macey’s head was young.

“You ain’t gonna flip?”

“Not really, sir.”

“OK,” said Logan. “No Ninth. No brilliant mates. Finish.”

“I ain’t brilliant now, sir. Not any more.”

“You ain’t. You ain’t brilliant, kid. You’re blue and silver.”

Macey screamed.

“Blue and silver, blue, silver.”

Macey screamed again as each word tore him. Logan felt the strength and agony in the harness.

“Go, baby, bluesilver blue silver!”

He watched the sword, ready for spasm.

“Bluesilver, bluesilver, bluesilver, red, baby!”

Macey was rigid against the tree. His arms brought the sword up in front of him, pointing at the camp.

“Yeh, that’s your bluesilver. Go take it. Take them bluesilver bastards in there!” Logan slackened the harness, whistled the warning to Magoo, Face and Buzzard. “Go take them bluesilvers!”

“Let there be no strife,” shouted Macey, “for we are brothers! The distance is gone between us!”

“Chickenshit! Where’s the big words? Come on! You’ve flipped! The big words, so’s you can go!”

“The strong bull of earth!” sang Macey, “The white bull bellows!”

“That’s it, kid!”

“I am above you!

I am a man!

I am the man of all gifts, and all giving!

Prepare my way for me!”

“You’re there!” Logan threw off the harness. But Macey jerked with a force that Logan had never felt in him. The sword still pointed, but the body was too rigid to move.

“The distance is gone between us!

Silver cloud lost!

Blue sky away!

Stars turn!”

Logan held on. The strength in Macey he had never known, and the words were not his.

“The wind blows – through sharp – thorns, for we are brothers, through the sharp hawthorn Tom’s a cold angler in the lake of darkness, blow the winds, blow, blew, blow, silver go! Go!”

Macey broke from the tree, straight for the camp. Logan staggered after him. Magoo, Face, Buzzard fell aside and Macey ran by, across the thorn spikes, and vaulted the stockade.

“He’s flipped like all get out! He’s going wide open! He ain’t selective!”

They pulled the tent over the ditch. Four guards had attacked Macey and lay dead. He was in the roundhut, killing startled men as they moved from sleep.

“How many?” said Logan.

“Nineteen,” said Buzzard.

“Escapes?”

“Negative. We zapped them good.”

“Where’s Macey?”

“Usual.”

“Stopped?”

“Yep. Turned right off. Crashed out. I left him spewing by the hut. He’ll sleep now.”

“Right,” said Logan. “Magoo, you go round up what’s left. Check them out, Face.”

“Yessir.”

Logan went to Macey, who was curled around his sword, blank-eyed, face clawed white with tears.

“Boy,” said Logan. “Was that some. He ain’t never gone like that before.”

The woman and children were being gathered into the open space before the hut.

“I don’t read you here, sir,” said Buzzard.

“Grow up, soldier. You’ve seen this before.”

“That was punitive.”

“And I keep telling you this is a different war, and we follow it through.”

“You call this following through?”

“You tell me,” said Logan, “for once. Aw, go find some hardware, if you don’t like it.”

“I’ll do just that,” said Buzzard.

There was no reaction from the people, no pleading or sounds, as they died.

Buzzard collected weapons while the killing began. “You following through, soldier?” said Logan. “You going to wear that cloak you picked up? Who made it? If you won’t have those people die, they don’t exist, so how come you wear a cloak that no one made? It’s cold on Mow Cop, soldier, and wind blows right through cloaks that ain’t real.”

Buzzard flung everything to the ground and ran towards the open space: but the others had finished for him.

“Decapitate,” said Logan. “Then find yourselves clothing and equipment.”

“What the hell you at?” shouted Buzzard. “Ain’t this enough?”

“Tribal raid, soldier. Decapitate. They’re all right. They’re dead.”