The Archivist (16 page)

The terrified man nods his head vigorously, and when I release him, he simply sinks to a sitting position. He looks like he is about to burst into tears, and as Danae and I walk away, my last glimpse is of a timid man who thought he was about to die and is just realizing that he is not going to.

Somehow, I feel like I just kicked a puppy.

Danae and I reclaim Saffron and Thorn. It is still early afternoon when we exit the town gates. A silence, almost as awkward as that on the morning after we slept together hangs between us, all the way back to our rendezvous with Little Crow.

But every time I glance at her, Danae has a satisfied smile on her face. I am so glad someone is happy.

Little Crow is lounging against a tree where we left him. If he is surprised to see Danae, he keeps it to himself.

Malsum comes pouncing out of the trees, and Little Crow simply nods to me as he swings up onto the cat and then leads us along the edge of the grassland for about a half hour before turning into a small valley that at first looks like nothing more than a fold in the mountains.

We follow a creek that winds through a meandering canyon, where we see some wandering cattle, but no sign of any homesteads. There is no established trail, but Little Crow never hesitates as he guides us over a low pass and then down into another valley.

The area is completely devoid of human presence as we ride deeper into the mountains. With Malsum nearby, the only wildlife we encounter is birds and squirrels that watch us pass from the safety of the trees.

“What is this village like that we’re going to?” Danae asks, eventually breaking the silence. “I always thought Indian tribes were just a myth.”

“I assure you, it’s very real. But probably not what you expect,” Little Crow responds.

“In what way?”

“You’ll see,” I reply. I will not even try to explain; it is too complicated, and she will find out soon enough. When she looks at Little Crow, he just shrugs a smile at her and keeps riding.

“How much farther is it?” she asks a few minutes later.

“Another couple of hours,” Little Crow says. “We entered tribal territory when we came down that ridge a while back.”

“Really? It doesn’t look like people have ever been here, let alone live here.”

“We live in harmony with the land, we don’t defile it, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t present. We’ve been seen by now, and word of our coming will reach my village long before we do.”

“Are there more… Malsums?” Danae asks, glancing over at the big cat.

Little Crow laughs. “We have seven lions, including three cubs. The fact is, your people created her kind during the Before Time. One of our village founders used to be a soldier and knew about them, so he checked up on them during the crazy days and found nine of them caged and abandoned. They were actually at the base I led you to, K’Marr. They were in such bad shape that only five survived the journey home. But now they grow in numbers, and we recently gave several mated pairs to another tribe.”

As the sun drops behind the high ridges around us, we work our way up the valley and deeper into the mountain range. The valley eventually widens into a small plain, and we pass some small, fenced, cultivated fields on the outskirts of a small village. On the far side of the fields, a group of people stands in a cluster at the edge of the community.

The band of nine men are a mix of elderly and young; three Native American, several White and a couple of Asians. They surround a tall, elderly Black man. Just as Little Crow said, the news of our arrival traveled faster than we did.

Danae and I dismount while Little Crow slips the harness off Malsum. The big cat runs to the far side of the village, where several other lions greet her, romping like car-sized kittens. With them as sentries, this village is probably the safest place to live within a hundred miles.

The group of men approaches us, and I whisper to Danae, “That tall guy in the middle is Amos Smithers. He’s the mayor, as well as the village chief.” She will soon understand why he has two titles.

The old man, with hair as white as freshly-fallen snow and a face wrinkled like tree bark, steps forward. “Little Crow, I didn’t believe it when the scouts reported you were coming home. My heart rejoices, now that my eyes prove what my ears denied.” Then he embraces Little Crow in a bear hug, which the younger man enthusiastically returns. Stepping back, the old man turns to me.

“Archivist, welcome to Strohomish. I remember you from the last time you were here. The medicine you brought saved Running Deer, and you’ll be pleased to know she still lives up to her name!”

At that, a young girl no more than ten years of age dashes forward from the village, leaping into her father’s arms. The last time I saw the child, nanobots were still rebuilding her congenitally-defective heart. The girl’s grandmother follows at a more composed walk, but with no less pleasure on her face. I remember Alice Morning Doe and her warm generosity.

“You brought them without blindfolds,” the elder states to Little Crow, his tone more fact than question.

“Crazy Bear came to visit me,” Little Crow responds. “He told me that after the Archivist recovered from his injuries, you made him a spirit brother of the tribe. So I knew he didn’t need to be blindfolded, and the other is his woman, so she is equally welcome.”

Danae steps forward. “I’m not exactly his woman, we’re more like close friends. Like brother and… wait, what do you mean? He recovered from what injuries?” she asks, turning to look first at Little Crow, and then at me.

I respond, “When we liberated the treatment for his daughter, Little Crow only had time to give me partial directions before he got captured. I made it through the first couple of passes during the first snowfall of the winter, but got bogged down. I was half frozen when the scouts found me. A few more hours might have been too late. The elders figured that someone who risked risk his life for their people deserved to be one of the people. So they made me an honorary member.”

They lead us into the small village, where we are surrounded by well-wishers, many of whom remember me. The mayor summons a couple of young men over, who lead Saffron and Thorn away to a corral at the far end of the village.

Little Crow has a small wooden lodge that he moved into after his wife died and his daughter went to live with her grandmother. He makes it clear that he would be highly offended if Danae and I do not stay there. While we stay in the village, he will join the other single men in a large group lodge so Danae and I can have our privacy. I would actually be more comfortable if he did stay with us, but before I can voice my protest, Running Deer pulls her father away.

We barely have time to set our packs inside our temporary quarters before we are dragged off to join Little Crow and his daughter at his parents’ lodge. The small but sturdy wooden structure his parents live in has a covered fire pit in front. An ornate, colorful totem pole stands guard to one side.

Alice hands us bowls of stew made with root vegetables and some unidentified chunky meat. This feels like four-star cuisine after several days of traveling rations. Little Crow introduces Danae to his parents, while Malsum watches from the shadows.

“You know my friend K’Marr, the Archivist. This is his woman, Danae.” Danae stiffens next to me, but does not bother to argue the point again.

“Danae, this is my father, Henry Blackburn,” Little Crow says, gesturing toward the elderly man.

He is clearly Native American, but wears the faded jeans, flannel shirt and wide-brimmed hat favored by the survivalists that make up the minority ruling faction of this village. He rises to give me a firm handshake, and tips his hat to Danae. When Henry sits, Little Crow formally introduces his mother.

“My mother, Alice Morning Doe, is a teacher to the young and an archivist in her own right. She’s been writing down all the knowledge from the Old Days, before the last elders who know it are gone.”

“Which can’t be soon enough,” Henry Blackburn growls. “Those old ways died with the old world. This is a new world with new ways, and those superstitions are best forgotten.”

The old woman pulls Running Deer close to her, then retorts, quietly, “What you call superstitions are all that remains of who we once were, and it must not be lost.” We all listen to the campfire crackle in the uncomfortable silence that follows.

Finally, Little Crow stirs the fire with a long stick while he recounts the tale of our adventure. His daughter listens raptly with wide eyes as he starts with our departure from Tucker, followed by our pursuit of the Disciples and our triumph over our unsuspecting enemy.

When Little Crow describes how the Disciple leader peed himself, everyone laughs, and Running Deer asks him to repeat that part again. Little Crow even describes Danae’s vengeance on her captor, and Henry Blackburn regards her with a mixture of surprise and respect.

When Little Crow finishes the story, Alice hustles the young girl off to bed.

“How long are you staying?” Henry asks me.

“About a week, until the full moon. Then I’m escorting Danae back to Entiak, and from there I’m going to Wolfengarde to recover an important item which the Disciples stole from me.”

Henry gives Little Crow a sharp glance, and my friend avoids his father’s gaze by looking away.

“You have until they leave to recover from your confinement,” he tells Little Crow. “Then I’m fitting you back into the regular patrols. Do you understand?”

Little Crow gives a terse nod, snaps his stick in half, then abruptly rises and leaves, followed by his feline companion. Danae is beyond noticing; her head keeps drooping and then jerking as she fights off sleep.

Alice emerges in time to see Little Crow vanish into the night, and asks, “Where is he going?”

“I told him he’s going back on rotation next week,” Henry snaps.

“What’s the hurry? Don’t you think he should at least consult…” Alice starts to say, before her husband interrupts her with a heated gesture.

“Leave your brother out of this. Little Crow should never have brought these outsiders, but the Council will meet in the morning to discuss how long they can remain.”

“Only because you are raising the question.” She bites down on her lip, and then after a moment, turns to face me. “I apologize for my husband’s rudeness. If they stole something from you, I take it you have no particular love for the False Brothers,” Alice says.

“They’re neither false nor brothers,” Henry interjects. “They’re just enemies, like everyone else out there. Now these outsiders are going to bring them down on us.”

I stand up in the ensuing awkward silence, and pull Danae to her feet. She gives me a groggy, puzzled look and as I support her swaying body, I address our hosts. “We’ve traveled far and are quite tired. Thank you for sharing your food and fire, but it’s time to say goodnight.”

Henry stares into the darkness and does not respond, but Alice rises and embraces us. Then Danae and I head off silently into the frigid darkness.

Fatigued as we are, the walk to our lodging is a very long twenty yards. Danae leans toward me and puts her arm around my waist, and my arm automatically reaches across her back to pull her the rest of the way against me.

We walk leisurely, hip to hip, her hair almost brushing my face while our steps synchronize, as if we have walked together like this our whole lives. Her body is warm where it presses against me, and I involuntarily picture cupping her breast, just a scant inch or so above where my hand is tucked around her side.

We walk silently, immersed in the moment, and stop at the dwelling entrance. She turns to face me, her arm still wrapped around my waist.

“You go first,” she whispers. Our eyes lock, as she waits. I long to brush my lips across her cheek, to nuzzle down to her throat and up across her chin, to taste her mouth once more. My hand rises to brush strands of hair back from her face. Then I touch my forehead to hers.

Part of me aches to surrender to my longing, but I cannot, I will not. As much as I want her physically, a deeper part of me refuses to damage what has become a treasured friendship.

“I’m going inside before I do something we’ll both regret,” I tell her, then push through the hanging furs.

Working in the darkness, we spread out sleeping furs on opposite sides of the small room and settle into our makeshift beds. Within minutes, Danae’s slow, even breathing tells me she is deeply asleep.

I lay for what seems like hours, trying to picture Sarah in my mind. Barring some tragic accident, she will look much as she did when I left. All immigrants to Mars received life extension treatments, both as incentive to make a twenty-year commitment to the colony and to help the Martian population build up.

On some level, I know that she may have moved on with her life, thinking I am dead. But I do not feel that she has, any more than I have. We did not have the kind of relationship you move on from. So as I feel myself drifting toward sleep, I try to imagine what it would be like to reunite with my wife, to return to Mars after I recover the generator.

But every time I imagine holding and kissing and making love to Sarah, her blond hair turns to auburn and she somehow turns into Danae. I keep struggling, pushing Danae away and turning around to see Sarah standing behind me, shaking her head with a bemused smile, as if wondering what I am doing.

I am still trying to get back to Sarah when sleep finally sweeps me into a dreamless slumber.

Distant, sharp, cracking sounds drag me out of a drifting sleep. The sound pauses for a moment and then resumes, over and over, until I realize that someone is chopping firewood somewhere. I roll over to face the shaft of morning sunlight that angles through several hazy windows, and gradually, the memory of the previous evening comes into mental focus.

I get that Henry Blackburn wants me to leave, and I would love to accommodate him by leaving for Wolfengarde this morning. But I cannot walk away—literally—from my responsibility for Danae. Sometimes my sense of honor can be damned inconvenient.

Danae is still asleep, little more than her red hair visible in the fur pile in the other side of the room. Sleeping Beauty does not stir when I stand and stretch, though one foot protrudes from her bedding. As I carefully move a corner of the fur blanket to cover it, I note that during the night she removed the bandaging, and the blisters have a healthy pink look to them.

I am curious about the primitive glass windows, so I move to examine them more closely.

Lucas, the village potter, has come a long way since my brief visit last winter. He already knew how to make charcoal so, while I recuperated from delivering Running Deer’s medicine, I instructed the craftsman on the basics of how to use his kiln for glass-making.

Being a Retrieval Archivist frequently involves being an instructor, and glass-making skills can be a valuable commodity. The glass is cloudy but smooth and strong, so he must have figured out the rest for himself.

A group of youngsters look up from their play and swarms in my direction when I emerge from the lodge. A small sea of mostly black heads surrounds me, with some blond and brown crowns mixed in, and a couple of redheads in the back.

They call to me by my village name, which is Snow Raven, because my dark duster gives me a raven-like appearance, and the village scout found me in a snow bank. All but the youngest remember me from last winter, but I am still a novelty.

Behind them, a pack of dogs wanders through the community of several hundred inhabitants. At first I was skeptical about the dogs and lions co-existing, but now I see a lion cub frolicking with them like they’re all one big pack.

Now and then someone returns from the outside world with hard candies or other sweets, so the youngsters want to know if I have brought any treats from town. Taking the edges of my duster, I open it to show the kids that I have nothing to hide. Vocalizing their disappointment, the kids flock back to whatever it was they were doing before.

I stroll through the village, looking for things that have changed since last winter. My primary role as a field archivist is to retrieve knowledge and technology, but every time I return from retrievals, a team of Archives sociologists and historians subjects me to grueling interrogations.

They want to assess and document human efforts to recover from the Crash—I get that. They are also frustrated by limited opportunities to study a truly unique period of human history. Sometimes I have to remind them that our primary goal remains not to further science, but to save it. At least, as much of it as we can.

When I reach the corral, I check in on Saffron and Thorn. The horses have merged with the village’s small herd, and are nibbling contentedly on some grass on the far side of the enclosure. Satisfied on that score, I decide to evaluate the village’s artisanship, and continue on to see Lucas.

At his workshop, I find the source of the wood-chopping noise: an older, short but stout White man with fire-red hair is adding to a sizable pile of hardwood, and he is using his blazing furnace to turn that wood into the growing pile of charcoal which is one of the necessary components of his operation.

Lucas Eagle Feather was part of the original survivalist community that took a starving Native American tribe under its wings and brought it into this settlement, which was simply called Stronghold at the time. The newcomers appended –mish, a Native American suffix which traditionally defined a place, to the village name. Then, over time, Strongholdmish was shortened to the current Strohomish.

Unlike his childhood friend Henry, when Lucas married his Native American wife, he adopted her tribe’s traditional ways, along with a new last name.

The moment Lucas sees me, he tosses his ax aside and greets me with a crushing bear hug. From previous experience, I am prepared for it.

“Snow Raven! I wasn’t sure you would return,” Lucas says as he greets me with my village name. “But I’m glad you did. It took most of the summer, and I got one hell of a burn on my leg, but look! Damn if I’m not making glass.”

The craftsman brings me inside his shop, where an assortment of panes and molded bowls lines his shelves. The glass consistency varies considerably, and he is still limited to just a few colors—pretty good for someone who has to learn almost everything the old-fashioned way: discover it for himself.

He is clearly developing his skill, although he has not progressed to blowing glass yet. Having high-quality steel would help immensely in that effort. Which gives me an idea.

“Your ax looks a bit worn, my friend,” I say.

“Yeah, I know what you mean. Unfortunately, the nearest steel mill is thirty years in the past.”

I put an arm around Lucas’s shoulder and guide him away from his forge. He may be used to the heat in there, but I am not. We take a seat on a bench in front of his workshop.

Usually I bargain for something when trading away knowledge and technology, but Lucas has become somewhat of a friend. I have a feeling that someday he may return the favor when I most need it, so I will consider this a long-term investment.

“Tell you what. The next time I visit, I’ll bring a way to make steel as good as that ax. It won’t be easy or fast, but if you do it right it’ll be strong.” When I pledged to the general that I would give him the steel-making technique, I never said I would not divulge it to anyone else.

The man’s eyes open wide, and he is actually speechless. Then he clasps my hands, and I grimace from his enthusiastic grip.

“You have no idea what that would mean to us,” Lucas says.

Actually, I have a better idea than he does. I promise to visit again before the next summer, and I will keep my promise, because I have to fulfill my promise to Tucker. Then I head back to my quarters.

Danae is up now, and sitting by the fire pit with Little Crow, his mother and Running Deer. As I approach, Alice looks up from stirring the contents of a cast iron pot hanging over a fire.

“Good morning, Snow Raven. I apologize for my husband’s behaviour last night,” she says, then comes over to give me a hug. “He forgets that you saved our granddaughter’s life, and by all rights you are as welcome in this village as he is. As for the False Brothers, they are an evil that threatens us, and we can’t ignore them.”

“Why do you call them False Brothers?” Danae asks. “You both respect nature, so I would think you have much in common with them.”

“They’re false because they pretend to be like us, but are no different than the other shama. Their words are as real as the smoke rising from this fire.”

“What are shama?” Danae asks.

“Shama means outsiders of all kinds but especially those who are not Native American,” Little Crow responds. “No offense meant, you are not outsiders now.”

“I understand,” Danae says. “To be honest, I’ve always felt like an outsider myself, among the shama.”

Alice continues, “Those you call Disciples may believe similar things, but they don’t understand what it means to be in harmony with the Earth. They don’t know the old ways.”

“Speaking of old ways, where is Henry?” I ask as I sit on the log next to Danae, a couple of hand widths away. Danae gives me a smile—a real one like she gave me the evening I walked into her tavern. I am glad I did not ruin our friendship last night.

“The old man is meeting with the rest of the council.” Little Crow gestures toward a large lodge in the center of the village. He practically spits the words.

Alice fills some bowls and passes them out along with spoons. I dig into a scramble of eggs and assorted vegetables I do not recognize, with a token amount of what I guess is venison sausage, based on the sharp flavor. For the next few minutes we are focused on our spoons and bowls. I have just finished my second serving when a group of men spills out from the central lodge.

Henry walks straight toward us, but says nothing—and in fact, ignores us. Instead, he stomps straight into his hut, and emerges a minute later with his bow and arrows. A moment of panic floods through me as I make an instinctive move to cover Danae, but the man does not even glance in our direction.

“Hunting,” he grunts to his wife, and strides toward the forest. Moments later, he fades into the trees silently and I shiver, glad I am not his prey—at least, I hope I’m not.

Footsteps crunch behind me and I turn around to see Amos Smithers walking up to stand before us, arms crossed. He maintains a neutral face as he acknowledges Little Crow and his mother with nods, then turns to face me.

“Archivist K’Marr Snow Raven.” The old man formally addresses me with both names, in his role as leader of both village factions. “As a full brother of the tribe, the council wants you to know that you and your companion are welcome to stay as long as you wish. Of course, if you intend to remain more than a few days, you’ll need to find a way to contribute, like any other member of the community.”

Having delivered his message, Amos relaxes and smiles while he gives me a slight bow. Behind him, I see Lucas emerge from what must be the town hall. Sometimes good deeds do pay off, sooner rather than later.

Amos turns to Alice. “Raven Eye vetoed your husband’s motion before it even came up for discussion. You almost lost a kinsman, and if he doesn’t keep his distance from Henry for a while, you might yet.” The mayor walks off.

“What was that about?” I ask Alice. I have heard the name before, but do not think I met Raven Eye last winter.

“Raven Eye is the village shaman, and my brother. The shaman represents the tribal people and the old ways in the council meetings. Raven Eye can’t make any laws or vote on any decisions, but he speaks for the tribe and he can veto any decision they make.”

“Then he could stop them from doing anything!” Danae exclaims.

“He can make it difficult, but not impossible. The council is made up of the original survivalist population, and they can still overrule his veto with a unanimous vote. But as long as Raven Eye could get the support of even one council member, his veto would stand.”

After we clean up from breakfast, I show Danae around the village. A small river cuts through the center of the small valley, and the village spreads out from the large central lodge, which serves as a sort of community center and council chamber.

The lodge sits back on one side of the river, and the spread of homes expands in concentric circles of small log houses in the inner circles, and then rough-framed houses and more primitive huts in the outer circles.

The original survivalists live in the inner houses, and later arriving members and second-generation families spread out from there. While there is an obvious class structure, no one lives in what I would consider poverty, at least relative to everyone else.

On the lodge side of the river, most of the cleared land is used for small family gardens and some public open space, while the other side of the river has some dwellings, but mostly appears to be devoted to community farming and livestock. Several wooden bridges span the river, two of them only suitable for pedestrian use, but the larger central bridge is wide, and sturdy enough to support a heavy wagon.

In one of the open spaces, we come across a group of youths engaged in archery practice. Both boys and girls shoot, ranging from maybe four or five years of age up to teenagers, and even the youngest are surprisingly good. Unlike a lot of rebuilding societies I have seen around the world, where gender roles have slammed back into place with a vengeance, this village values survival skills in a very pragmatic way.

We watch Running Deer shoot half a dozen arrows into the target fifty feet away. Danae squats down next to her and says, “That is some pretty good shooting.”

“Thank you,” the girl responds brightly. “My father taught me that a good bow and well-made arrows make a big difference. I made these myself! Would you like to try?”

“No,” Danae laughs. “I’m more likely to hit someone else than the target. But I do have something else I can use for target practice.”

Danae snatches up several small stones the size of large marbles, then stands up, unties her sling-belt and whips it off her waist. With a few deft movements, one end is wrapped around her wrist. Then she pulls the sling through her hand, sets a stone in the pouch and lets it hang at her side.

As all the archers watch, Danae turns sideways to face the target like a baseball pitcher, the sling dangling behind her. Then, in one fluid but explosive motion, she whips it over her head and releases the projectile at the target. It smacks in the middle of the clustered arrows and arouses a chorus of oohs and ahhs. Deftly slipping another stone in the sling, Danae flings it and strikes within a finger width of the first spot. Three more shots, and she turns to face a now silent audience.

“You may have more range than me, but I’ll never run out of ammo,” Danae says to the youngster, with a smile.

“Can you teach me to do that?” Running Deer pleads with wide eyes, pressing her hands together while she hops up and down. The kid is adorable.

“Well, I can teach you the basics, but only practice will make you as good as I am. Let’s start with the stance. Then I’ll show you how to make your own sling, so you can practice. Who else wants to make a sling?” Danae asks the group surrounding her, and she is swarmed by enthusiastically jumping students.

Danae is now caught in the middle of this group of kids, so I walk back to Little Crow. I have seen how handy her skill with a sling has been, so I would join in myself if I did not already have a commitment to accompany Little Crow on a hunt. But first, we spend most of the afternoon touring around the woods outside the village and some of the surrounding hills, accompanied by Malsum.