Moonrise

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.

The arrow whispered away from the bow-string's twang, flicked across the meadow, and arched down to strike the shy ram at his flank, and too far back.

Baj ran toward them as the old male backed, then stepped snorting aside – set a second arrow to the string, jolted to a stop and shot the other sheep again. Struck behind its shoulder, the animal bucked and collapsed sliding into the grass. The ewes bleated, whirled and ran down-slope, and the old ram, reluctant… certain that Baj was guilty of something, backed, turned, and followed them.

CHAPTER 18

It was evening, with banners of cloud colors streaming across the sky. before Baj found the others – wending north, tiny with distance, through evergreens below him… They'd passed him by.

He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled, but the slow cold wind was against him, and they didn't hear, didn't look up. So, burdened by sword-belt, bow, quiver and pack – and with a considerable weight of butchered mutton on his back, bundled in the beast's own hide – Baj commenced as good a gallop as he could manage down the mountainside.

He fell once, and rolled a little with tangles and thumps from his load, sheathed rapier akimbo (wonderful word), but there was no one to see.

… After at least a WT mile of downhill hurry through thicker and thicker forest, he came out to an almost level – face streaked red by whipping branches – whistled, and saw Nancy and the others hear, and turn to watch him come.

Errol ran back to caper around Baj, sniffing the wrapped meat's blood odor. He reached up and tugged at the hide, until told, 'No,' and pushed away.

'Where have you been?' Nancy apparently angry. 'You were to hunt before us – then wait. Where were you?'

Baj pointed up. 'High. Found the sheep there.'

Nancy made a tongue-click like Errol's, and turned away.

'Thank these mountains' Jesus,' Patience said. 'Not turkey.' Her left arm was free of its sling.

'No, mountain sheep.'

'Baj, I believe you may still be a prince. Can we camp? Can we eat?'

'If we find a place close and deep enough for one of your dangerous fires.' Richard sighed. 'Appetite will be our deaths.'

'Better than starvation,' Patience said. 'I didn't feast with the madmen. – Do you know that many of their children die in winter? They think it incorrect to bundle them warm.'

'Better the Robins,' Nancy said, 'than those people. If they are what Warm-time humans were, then bless Drunk Jupiter, and the Wall.'

Baj started to say something in those cruel dreamers' defense, then decided not. He was too tired from sheep chasing, and it would mean an evening's battle – Nancy's method of discussion.

* * *

Grumbling, shaking his shaggy head, Richard allowed himself to be bullied for a guarded fire of windfall, in a dense stand of balsam poplar damp enough to catch no sparks. 'Though I suppose, if we're seen in these hills, it will likely be by those we come to see.'

Baj, with Errol helping, dragged two weather-seasoned logs to lie side by side with a bed of dry branches between them.

'Meat's going to taste of sap.' Patience sat with her coat unbuttoned despite the chill.

'Do you want this fire?' Richard said, '- or don't you?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Then stop complaining.'

'Well,' Patience said, 'we're all getting tired.'… But all were less tired when the meat was roasted, spitting and running fat, showers of sparks rising into a windy night. Richard carved out smoking slabs with his heavy knife, hung each on a whittled stick, and passed them to the others before hacking out half a haunch for himself… Comparing with the village meat before, Baj found this mutton – wild, fresh, tainted by no notion of Warm-times returning, no cropped slaves, no weeping children – to be the better supper.

They ate sitting close to the fire, except for Errol, who gobbled under a shrub – and Patience, finishing a second thick chop, sitting relaxed against a hemlock trunk. 'I have,' she said to Baj, when he offered her a blanket, 'a Warming-talent, failing a little, but still firm enough to cozy me.' She smiled at him, her nose now straight – though with a little bump at the bridge. '… Are you settled this evening, Baj? Safe, resting, and full of rich meat?'