Colonist’s hostility
toward Leon was high, Hermione made a command decision for his safety: “We’ll
escort him to Firstown and secure him for trial.”
Luenda was ready to
secure him that moment, hand rested upon her knife hilt, eyes rested upon the
prisoner: “Waste of time, we know what he’s done. Savaged our community and
murdered Chowder! We finished Jason’s life, let’s do the logical thing… ”
fingers curled around the weapon handle.
“I don’t know you, you
seem a fine woman, but if you touch that man I will shoot you.” Hermione’s grip
settled upon her sidearm.
Luenda stared with
incredulous rage, stifled an outburst. Hunter’s eyes studied the merchant’s and
saw affinity. Each had a long cast to her view, knit brows rimmed deep sockets,
return looks flashed.
Not angry, proud and
determined.
She liked the older
woman and recognized superior experience and knowledge—wisdom.
Luenda relaxed, her hand
dropped away from the knife: “He is going to pay… ”
“Yes—we’ll render
justice. Appropriately.”
“You’re the new space
trader?”
A sweet smile under a
combat helmet: “Hermione Chockswindae, master of the Almanor. Whom have I
pleasure… ?”
“I’m Luenda Mucetti—I
live here.”
“I have heard of you.
One of my crew has become quite fond already.” She turned her smile toward Alicia.
Puzzled, Luenda followed
the glance, the crew member in battle gear was unfamiliar.
Alicia spoke: “We met
yesterday,” removed helmet. “Just for a minute and in all of the craziness… ”
Recognition: “Peter’s
new girlfriend?”
“Sort of… It’s Edzelian
I really love… ”
Post-combat tension
broke and Luenda laughed with a tummy rub and a hip slap, Hermione and Alicia
grinned with her.
Music drew them to the
door: violin and percussion, fast, brilliant, double and triple-timed,
syncopated. Chloe opened the Old Firstown shed’s door, Pyteman followed her in.
The sound expanded around them, reverberated from a high ceiling and bare
walls.
The musician was solo,
upon a small wooden stage—Kaila. Hair pinned up, in an exercise halter and
shorts, on her feet were hard-soled wedge shoes.
She played and danced a
hot leg-chop, kicking steps banged the stage like a drum, heel and toe clappers
helped accent and interest, feral shouts reinforced it.
In full session, not
expecting visitors, oblivious.
Pyteman and Chloe found
chairs and took positions of admiration.
She saw them and halted
with one sudden high kick stomp that rattled the walls. Made an ankle deep bow,
lifted the fiddle and stick over her rump, came up with a ‘Whew!’ and tossed
the sweat off of her brow. Catching wind, she let them speak.
Chloe: “Fantastic! How
do you do that?”
“Lotta practice. It’s my
workout, I drink whiskey—calories, dance them off and keep my tiny waistline,
the kick steps build the derriere… “ she wriggled her rounded out shorts
saucily.
Pyteman: “We’re not
intruding… ?”
“Ready to pack it in,
been here an hour. Speaking of whiskey, can I offer?”
Visitors nodded happily.
There was a cabinet, she
put the instrument atop and pulled a bottle from a shelf, three glasses.
Dragged two chairs over,
seat and bar. She poured.
Chloe: “Jolrae told us
to look in on this. He said you draw a scene… ”
“They pop in and watch,
someone brings a guitar or Patty will have her clarinet—she dances too, not the
kicking thing. It gets social sometimes,” her smile claimed a broad definition
for the word ‘social’.
Pyteman spoke over his
tumbler: “We’d like to arrange a band. I’m having my workmen convert an empty
warehouse into a showroom. The real deal: stage, sound and lights, casino on
the side and a restaurant kitchen. Only thing missing is an orchestra.”
“That’s exciting! When
will you open?”
“The work should take
about three months.”
“Rehearsal time—I know
everybody with an instrument, we’ll do it! Would this be a paid gig?”
Pyteman laughed and
Chloe stretched indulgent lips, he spoke: “You’re sharp! We’ll make an
arrangement—credit on your catalog accounts?”
Sipping warm whiskey
with a smooth smile, Kaila said: “Yeah, we’ll make an arrangement… ”
They found the abandoned
shoulder bags and deduced that there was still a weapons cache nearby. Luenda
led a search party uphill from where they first encountered the late renegades.
It didn’t take much poking to discover the crevice and the hollow space behind.
The floor was still knee deep in lethal hardware, what they couldn’t see was
the quantity that Cal had removed and concealed high up in the foliage of a
densely leafed tree, nor did they discover a single pharmaceutical.
The artist watched them
from his burnt-hollow trunk, covered in soot. He wasn’t that disappointed, the
items they recovered were of less interest to him, many were too heavy to
handle alone.
But the day was warming
up and he had been drinking only creek water since leaving the cliff-top still.
He decided to go to Drunkard’s Den, already a preferred location.
Spear carriers Borin and
Sappo confronted him at the entrance to the stillhouse clearing. They were old
friends blinded by drugs and alcohol. Cal offered a vial of white pills: “Here
boys.”
Suddenly they recognized
him and lowered their weapons.
Delgard greeted him at
the A-frame shed: “Man, you need a bath! Go jump in the river.”
“Gimme a drink!”
Delgard saw eyes he
wasn’t going to argue with, went inside and fetched a jug.
Cal gurgled it, let the
liquor splash down his chin, it dissolved the soot, made thick black streams
down his shirt.
Yet another new
environment, Taralisa’s Garden, Mabutu explored. As at Branch House rising
before dawn and following shadows. He looked though windows and wondered about
the artifacts and people inside. Questions: What? Why? Who? Lack of answers
made him anxious. He tried doors, none were locked, latches and hinges were
smooth and silent.
Not yet bold enough to
enter, he looked through the opened portals, frustrated.
The move helped
Salyanna’s spirit, finished the physiological side of recovery. Sweet mountain
air and misty cascades pulled her away from convalescence—she took up walking.
Mabutu showed the trails.
Children stayed three
weeks during cleanup and repair at Branch House.
Brothel babe and eunuch
found a favorite spot, a throne shaped boulder adjoining a stair-step brook.
Salyanna took the seat, Mabutu knelt on a log at her hips, put his head on her
lap and they slept the warmer part of the afternoons.
Woke once to find two
children sitting in the stream with the cold water running over their backs and
shoulders, swirling around their laps and feet. They looked quite comfortable.
Without makeup Ali
Battaglia had a simple freckled face, short lashes, no mole, nor dimple and
thin sober lips, Massive hair draped ropy down her frame, the ends tumbled in
the cascade. She spoke to Mabutu’s eyes, on level with hers: “Hi!”
“Hello… ?”
Rajin Syneid had only
shoulders and head above the spume, wet-down, his thin hair virtually
disappeared: “You guys found the good spot,” thin smile was a practiced look,
somber eyes failed to assist the humor.
Mabutu was wary,
Salyanna was curious. Heretofore the native children had avoided the
newcomers—except Luvin’s habit of ambushing the eunuch.
Ali: “We’ve wanted to
see you without grownups around.”
Rajin: “Or Luvin… ”
“Yeah—without Luvin.”
“He’s mean and he
doesn’t like you.”
“Or us… ”
“He hates everybody,
never talks nice.”
“We’ve seen him knock
you down.”
“Knocks me down when
grownups don’t watch.” Rajin wiped a trickle from his brow: “They don’t notice,
always think it’s play but he likes to make me hurt… ”
“We wanna stop him… ”
“You’re bigger, and if
we get a couple other kids with us, we can knock him down and he’ll see what we
feel.”
“The ‘Not Luvin’ club,
see?” She looked to Salyanna’s eyes: “Moms say you’re a kid too, even grownup
the way you are. Said people used to hurt you and we figure that means you can
fight. With you in the club, Luvin has to go away.”
Rajin nodded and made a
serious face, unintentionally comic in its severity.
Ali continued: “All us
older kids wanna watch so we gotta make a plan for how we get him… ”
Other kids left him
alone and Luvin was glad for it—they were finally getting the message: he
didn’t like them. He craved solitude and with half the families in the Vale
sheltering Taralisa’s Garden was the largest crowd he’d seen since last year
when NanaMel took him to the Games and the angry Meeting that followed.
He still had the Boris
carved flute she gave him, kept it away from sight, with other memories of
NanaMel.
And new memories,
visions of his mother and a madman, triumphant until Luenda entered. A man of
power, driving with fists, taking and forcing—potent. Luvin understood the
madman.
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