Angel-Seeker (11 page)

“Thank you. I would not have thought of that.”

She bent over the geyser, filling one skin after another. “Do you still have enough water? Do you want me to refill your containers?”

“One of them is empty. That would be kind of you.”

She took it from him as he extended his hand out from the edge of the tent. “I can't think of anything else I can do for you.”

“As I said, you have been very kind.”

“You might take a fever in the night,” she said. “And there are predators who roam the desert who wouldn't mind a little angel meat for dinner.”

“Since I don't have any weapons, I'll just try to stay alert.”

“I'll bring you some stones. You can frighten off some of the smaller ones if you hit them with a rock. Or you might bang a rock against the metal of your canteen. Most of them don't like noise.”

He had never in his life thought about primitive ways to discourage night hunters from wanting to feast on his flesh. He'd camped out in the open land more times than he could count—though he'd never particularly enjoyed it—but he'd always been facing a fire, and he'd never felt either helpless or in danger.

She stepped away, returning about ten minutes later with a dozen fist-sized rocks. These she piled up neatly within easy reach of his hand. “If you have more night visitors than this, you may just as well lie back and let yourself be eaten,” she said with a smile in her voice.

“Good advice,” he said. “And someday a Jansai caravan will stop by and find my bones spread out before the fountain and wonder what manner of man was so foolish he died in the presence of water.”

“What about your wings?” she asked with interest.

“What about them?”

“Do they rot away like flesh, or hold their shapes like bone?”

This, again, was not something he had ever had occasion to consider, though he had heard historians in Velora talk about old sites they had dug up from the time the settlers first arrived on Samaria. “The wings are mostly tissue and sinew, so they rot away,” he said. “But if I die just right, or if I'm buried under a layer of soil and rock, my wings will leave an impression in the dirt, and anyone who finds my body in a hundred years or so will know that I was an angel.”

“And if they find your body in a week or so, your wings will probably still be intact,” she said. “Because I don't think the mountain cats eat feathers. Or do they?”

“You're a sort of gruesome girl,” Obadiah said.

Her laugh pealed out, lilting and happy. “I don't really think you're going to die,” she said cheerfully. “But I'll come back tomorrow to check on you.”

He was silent a moment. “You will?” he said slowly. “Truly, I would not have asked it of you. You have done so much for me already.”

Her garments fluttered with her shrug. “We'll be camped here another day at least. I don't see any reason I can't come back. And I'll bring you more food, because that isn't going to last you long.”

“I don't want you to get in trouble.”

“Oh, I won't. I won't even have to sneak away. I'm sure my mother will send me back here tomorrow for more water.”

“Well, be careful. Don't come here if it will make anyone angry.”

That smile in her voice again. “I know how to leave a campsite without being seen. I think I'll be able to come back tomorrow. I just hope you aren't delirious with fever when I get here.”

“Or dead,” he added.

That laugh. “Or eaten. Then I won't get a chance to see what happens to your body.”

Now he laughed. “Good-bye, Rebekah of the Jansai. I hope to see you tomorrow.”

“Good-bye, angel Obadiah. You will.”

He spent the first hour after she left reviewing their conversation and marveling at the fact that she had appeared at all, in the hour when he was so greatly in need of aid, and then that she had consented to help him. Not one Jansai woman in a hundred would have done such a thing, he believed. Well, maybe her cousin Martha. Wretched as he felt, he could not help a smile from coming to his lips. He had learned enough about Martha to think that Rebekah probably passed for a model of decorum in comparison.

Although, perhaps not. Perhaps even Martha would have fled the scene, leaving the angel there to drown or bake or starve. And how many of those silent, shielded, frightened young Jansai girls he had glimpsed would have stayed beside him a whole afternoon, trading stories and making him laugh? Surely, even among the rebels of her peers, Rebekah was unusual.

She was also adept at predicting the future, for every evil she had warned him against came true in the next few hours. He had been feeling stronger by the time she left, sustained by the food she'd given him, rescued from the wrath of the sun, and buoyed by the conversation. But as the night grew darker, he started to feel worse again. The gash on his leg felt as if someone was holding a brand to the flesh; his wing twitched constantly with the memory of fire. The air cooled alarmingly, and the sand against his skin began to feel like so many grainy pellets of ice. Struggling and swearing with the effort, he managed to worm his two worn pairs of trousers under his body, and
that helped a little. But his skin was so cool. The trauma seemed to have leached all the excess heat from his veins, leaving him shivering and pathetic as any mortal.

So he took her next suggestion, which was to tug on the fabric of his tent and bring his shirts tumbling down to cover his body. They were thin and fancy, not designed to act as blankets in a chilly, hostile environment, but he still felt better as he made a nest of his soiled clothing and curled all his limbs together for warmth. The expenditure of energy left him completely drained, so he took one last sip of water and let himself fall asleep.

He woke a couple of hours later, hot and achy and fuzzily aware that some other creature waited nearby. He thrashed about until he achieved a sitting position, though the action caused his wing to crackle and his leg to spasm with agony. Then he saw it: the shadowed but unmistakable shape of a mountain cat maybe ten yards away on the other side of the fountain. Little was visible except the cat's distinctive silhouette and glinting eyes, but that was good enough for Obadiah. Letting out a frightful yell, he grabbed up one of the rocks and hurled it as hard as he could at the night hunter. The cat whipped to its feet, snarled, and bounded away, but did not go far. Obadiah could still see it, a moving patch of sand and shadow against the sand and shadow of the desert. As its lashing tail stilled and its pointed face lowered to the ground, it grew almost invisible. But Obadiah was not likely to forget that it was still there.

Maybe not such a good idea to sleep.

Now that he was awake and in a sitting position, he took inventory. His flesh, so cool just a few hours ago, was now even hotter to the touch than an angel's skin should be, and his head swam a little if he moved it too suddenly. Fever, after all. Damn her for being right.

But he could not damn Rebekah, not after she had saved him. He apologized to the night air and tried to clear his head.

What had she said earlier? About angels begging for medicine from the god? Had he come across any bruised and broken traveler, that was exactly what he would have done: raised a song to the god to pray for drugs. He even knew the exact melodies of the prayers for medicines that would take care of fever; he could hear them running
through his head in his own clear tenor. But, merciful Jovah, he did not think he had the strength to sing.

He drew his knees up, moving his left leg carefully, and linked his hands around his ankles. The posture made him feel more secure, as if he would not suddenly lose his balance and fall back to the ground. Then he tilted his head back so he could see the stars, the glittering map of the heavens that seemed, in his delirious state, even closer to his hand than the equally glittering expanse of sand. He opened his mouth and willed himself to sing.

The music came out like a whisper, like a breath, a lullaby so soft he could have sung it at the ear of a sleeping baby. Doggedly, he sang the piece through, panting a little at the first chorus, pausing for breath several times during the second verse, and practically wheezing by the time he arrived at the second chorus. There was no chance this prayer would find its way to Jovah's ear. Obadiah himself could hardly discern the melody. The distracted god would not be able to catch the arrangement of the notes, understand the mumbled words, and toss down lozenges of medicine to ease the angel's hurts.

Obadiah's head fell forward to rest on his knees. He was so tired. He was so drained. He did not care, at that moment, if the fever burned him up or the mountain cat claimed him for dinner. His eyes shut and his mind closed down. Locked in this cramped position, he slept.

W
hen Rebekah returned around noon the next day, Obadiah was in seriously bad shape. He had spent the night dozing in his upright position, then jerking awake every time instinct warned him that danger was approaching. Maybe seven times he spotted the mountain cat only a few feet away, and he drove it off with badly flung rocks and a cacophony of shouts and hammerings. Each time, it slunk away with a little less alacrity; each time, it settled down to wait just a few inches closer.

Every time he woke, defended himself, and then assessed his situation, Obadiah felt worse. His head was beginning to pound, the pain from his wounds was fierce and insistent, and fire ran through his veins. There was nothing much he could do about any of this except drink water, try to rest, and try to stay alive.

When dawn yawned and sat up, he more or less surrendered. He was too tired to maintain his semi-seated position, and he no longer cared if the mountain cat ate him for breakfast. Shuddering, he lowered himself back onto his trousers, untidily bunched into a bed on the sand, and pulled his soiled shirts over his face and torso. He had scarcely adjusted himself twice, seeking a more comfortable position, before he was asleep.

He woke once, so hot and so thirsty that he did not think he would live long enough to fight free of his linen coverlet and find the mostly empty waterskin. A few gulps of water—almost as hot as
he was—and then he lay back down, panting. It took a moment for him to realize that he was still alive. So neither infection nor predator had killed him yet. The mountain cat was a nocturnal animal and had probably slipped away with the sunrise; but a fever would hunt any time, night or day, and might easily bring him down before nightfall.

When he woke again, Rebekah was there.

She apparently had been there for some time, because everything was different. It took him a moment to identify why he felt so much better, so he stared at her for a long time, trying to marshal his thoughts. She did not seem to be aware that he was awake. She sat before the fountain, splashing quietly but purposefully in the water, and he could not bring himself to wonder what she was doing. He could only marvel at what she had done.

She had constructed a real tent for him, for one thing. Stretched over his head was an actual length of stitched fabric, and it had been attached to four short poles that were stuck in the ground around him in a rectangular pattern. The pain still throbbed in his leg and his wing, but it was numbed, almost bearable. She must have—while he was still sleeping—spread his hurts with an incredibly efficacious salve. And he was no longer so hot. His skin felt cool, as if someone had wiped it down with water.

But he was still beset by a raging thirst.

“Rebekah,” he croaked.

Instantly she turned from her task and came to kneel beside him. Again, she was completely covered in swirling veils, so he could not see her face or her shape; it was like having an attentive ghost perch at his bedside. “So you
are
still alive,” she said. “I was not sure, when I arrived this morning, that there was a breathing man beneath those tangled shirts.”

“Can I have—something to drink?” he whispered.

She already had a waterskin in her hand. She held it to his lips because his hands were so shaky he could not keep them steady. Expecting another mouthful of hot, tepid water, he was astonished to taste a sweet fruity drink. He gulped it down greedily, spilling some down his chin and onto the sand.

“What is that? Where did—you get it?”

“I brought it from camp. Water and mashed apple and marrowroot. It's good for you.”

“It's wonderful. And all this—this tent—”

She laughed. “Yes, I was very pleased with this myself! I brought the broken axle from Simon's wagon and a strip of canvas we carry to repair our own tent. Much better than shirts and shrubs.”

“But how did you carry it so far?”

She spread her hands out as if uncertain of how to answer such a ridiculous question. “I made a bundle and slung it on my back. It wasn't difficult. And I brought you some food. And medicine.”

“Medicine,” he repeated. “I think you must have already given me medicine. You've dressed my wounds again, haven't you?”

She nodded. “Yes. You cried out when I touched you, but you didn't seem to wake. I'm sorry if I hurt you.”

“If you did, I don't remember. But the pain is—so much better now.”

“Is it? Good!” she exclaimed. “It's manna root salve. Nothing as good as that in any of the three provinces, not for an injury. But that's not what I meant when I said I brought you medicine.”

He could only stare at her dumbly.

The smile was back in her voice when she spoke. “Last year, we were traveling in Gaza. There was a farmer there, a poor man, but he desperately wanted to buy something in Hector's wagon. Some farm tool, I don't remember. He didn't have any money, and nothing to barter with except some drugs. Apparently his wife had been sick the summer before, and he'd put out a plague flag, and an angel came down and prayed to Jovah for medicine. I suppose you understand about all that.”

“Oh, yes.”

“So the god sent these tablets down from the sky like rain, and the man gave them to his wife, and they cured her fever. But he didn't need them all, so he hoarded the rest. And that's what he traded to Hector for this farm tool he wanted.”

“And that's what—you've brought to me today?”

“Yes. Jordan was sick last winter, but these pills made him well in two days. They're really quite amazing.”

He managed a slight laugh. “Yes. I'm familiar with these particular
gifts of the god. Last night, I was wishing I had some, in fact. But I didn't have the strength to summon the god's attention.”

“Let me give you one now.”

She handed him a small white lozenge, and he put it on his tongue, then he tried again to lift his head to sip from the waterskin. It took him a few sloppy attempts before he was able to swallow the pill. He lay back on the sand, panting and exhausted.

She sat beside him a moment, appearing to assess him. “It's not good that you're so weak,” she said at last.

“I agree,” he managed.

“I've brought some broth. I think that will make you stronger. Do you think you can sit up and eat some?”

“No.”

Another short silence.

“If I held your head up,” she said more slowly, “and I fed you, could you swallow some then?”

“I think so,” he whispered.

She rose and stepped around the fountain to the place where she had accumulated quite a pile of waterskins, linens, and other objects. He thought she must be one of those naturally efficient people who understood what was necessary and the simplest way to achieve it, and then didn't make any fuss about getting it done. Unless it was something her mother had asked her to do, of course. But that came from youth. His guess was she would be quite a capable woman once she left her mother's care.

When she came back, she settled on the ground even closer to him. “Here,” she said, and lifted his head so it could rest on her thigh. “How's that?”

Immeasurably improved, in fact. It was amazing how any perspective higher than a completely prone one gave a person a better sense of control over his world. But that was not the only advantage. Now that he was actually in contact with her, he could smell the scent of her body, a mingling of sage and sun and sweat and sweetness. Through the mesh of her veil he could catch glimpses of smooth cheeks, wide eyes, curls of dark hair.

“It's good,” he said.

“We'll try a little at a time.”

Slowly, carefully, she fed him spoonful after spoonful of a hearty, meat-based broth. He couldn't believe how hungry he was, how wonderful the salty liquid tasted in his mouth. After every five or six spoonfuls, she gave him another drink of the fruity mixture. He made no attempt to disguise how eager he was for another taste, and another. He felt like some kind of sightless, ravenous baby bird, snatching morsels of food from its patient mother, swallowing as fast as it could, and opening its mouth wide for the next offering.

“I think you shouldn't have any more right now,” she said finally, laying down the spoon. “I don't want you to get sick.”

“That was—that was so good. Thank you so much.”

“It's just soup broth,” she said.

“It was wonderful.”

A silence fell between them, and he wondered if she would edge away and lay his head back on the sand. But she made no move to do so. He could not be sure through the veil covering her face, but he thought she looked pensively across the sand in the direction from which she'd come.

“This morning, Isaac's mother was crying,” she said at last. “She went whispering to my mother, but I couldn't hear what she said.”

“Do you think Isaac was unkind to her?”

“I don't know. All the young men were gone to hunt before I came out of the wagon.” She hesitated. “She said Isaac's name, though. I heard that much.”

“Well, maybe it was just an argument between mother and son. I've argued with my mother often enough.”

Now he had caught her attention; he could make out the shapes of her eyes, trained on his face. “Have you? About what?” she asked.

“Not anymore, of course. When I was younger. If she thought I was rude to my father or lax in my lessons or not as tidy as she would like or late or sarcastic, she would sit me down and lecture me. And I would cross my arms on my chest and say, ‘Don't tell me what to do,' and then she'd really start scolding. People are always telling me how charming I am—” He paused and smiled and went on. “You might not think it, seeing me in this condition, but I
can
be charming. But I owe all my manners and any gentleness I possess to my mother. A most gracious lady indeed.”

“And you are a good son to her still?”

“Well, I try to be,” he said with a grin. “Both dutiful and generous. She lives in Velora, though, so I won't see her as often now that I'm living in Cedar Hills.”

“Why are you living in Cedar Hills?”

Because Gabriel asked me to befriend the Jansai
. This hadn't been exactly what Gabriel had had in mind, though, Obadiah was pretty certain. “We lost a lot of angels in the destruction of Mount Galo,” he said instead. “The Jansai weren't the only ones to suffer when the mountain came down. So now the angels from two holds are spread over three, and there is too much work for all of us to do. And more hands—more voices—were needed in Jordana. So I'm here.”

“And will you be going to Breven often?” she asked.

It was said innocently, and surely she meant nothing by it, but the question silenced him for a moment. He peered up at her, making no attempt to conceal the fact that he was trying to see beyond her disguise. “I might be,” he said slowly. “Cedar Hills has business with Uriah.”

“Next time you fly over the desert,” she said primly, “you might remember to come a little more prepared.”

“I wish you'd take off your veil,” he said.

She drew back a little, but did not, as he half-expected, shove his head off her knee and jump to her feet. “I'm not allowed to do that,” she said.

“You're not allowed to be here. But you are.”

“I can't.”

“I'd like to see your face. You've done so much for me, and I don't even know what you look like.”

“I'm a dark-haired girl with brown eyes. I'm just ordinary.”

“I don't think you'd look ordinary to me.”

“Then you'd be disappointed.”

“I don't think so.”

“My family would abandon me in the desert if I showed my face to you—a man, a stranger, and an angel.”

“I would not for the world bring harm to you.”

“Then don't ask me for such a thing.” She lifted a finger and placed
it, gently, on the curve of his cheekbone. “I'm glad I got to see your face, though,” she said.

The touch was whisper soft, as vagrant and curious as a spring breeze. As he had last night, he shivered at the faint contact, and this time he was pretty sure it was not shock or trauma. Or, perhaps, both shock and trauma, but not caused by his severe wounding.

“How long will your family be on the road?” he asked, the words sounding tight and constricted. “When will you be back in Breven?”

She shook her head. She had finished tracing the line of his cheek and now she folded her hands back in her lap. “I don't know. How long will it take Simon to find a branch to serve as his axle, how long before the wagon is repaired, how long will we linger in Castelana? Anything could happen on the road. I hate to travel.”

“I imagine I will be back in Breven in a week or two,” he said.

She laughed. “You will be recovering in a sickroom in Cedar Hills—if you make it that far.”