The girl's face crumpled, turning red. "He: he shouldn't have died like this!" she cried.
"No," Juniper agreed. "He shouldn't. He was a good man, who only wanted to tend his fields and do right by his family and neighbors. There were years yet of work and joy ahead for him. He should have died old and tired and ready for the Summerlands, with you and your brother and your children around him to bid him farewell. He gave all that up, for us."
"I'm sorry," Cynthia said, putting the heels of her hands to her forehead. "Can: can we have a rite for him?"
"Certainly we can among ourselves, honey," Juniper said gently. "But he respected your choice; you have to respect his. We'll get the ritual he'd have wanted for his burial. Just let it go, for now. Mourn him, girl, and you too, Ray. Cry. Scream if it helps. There's no way around the pain, you have to go through it to the end and beyond. Blessed be."
She left them sobbing in each other's arms; Eilir was coming, riding a horse and leading another for her mother, her eyes wide with horror as she looked about.
When Juniper Mackenzie stood it was as if the weight of the world pressed down on her shoulders.
Chapter Twenty-seven
P roblems, Mike Havel thought.
I didn't have enough of my own, so I took on a hundred other people's. Then we all decide to make a living solving problems for strangers:
Mother Superior Gertrude was a horse-faced woman in her early sixties. She wasn't quite what Havel had expected in a nun; she did wear a headdress, but the rest of her clothing was overalls and a checked shirt and heavy shoes of the sort once called sensible.
Now she finished making corrections on the graph paper that Ken Larsson had pinned to a corkboard supported by a tripod. They were in Sheriff Woburn's house, a painfully ordinary suburban living room-except for the lamphold-ers screwed into the walls, and the smoke marks above them; the whole house smelled not-so-faintly of woodsmoke from the kitchen, ashes from fireplace, and burnt gasoline from the lanterns.
There were improvised stables out back, too, and you could smell the horses as well, and their by-products. Flies buzzed about, despite the screens on windows and doors. There was too much manure around, and it made an ideal breeding ground; so did the broad-and heavily fertilized-truck gardens the residents of Craigswood had put in.
Well, hello, Good Old Days, Havel thought absently. Eau de Horseshit and all. At least wandering about we can escape from our own crap.
Woburn caught the drift of Havel's thoughts as he glanced about. "Not lookin' forward to an Idaho winter with only the fireplace and the woodstove," he said.
"Damnit, we should be laying in wood now, but we don't have time."
Havel nodded. It would be even worse in a tent, he thought.
Eric and a couple of others had suggested that they take up the wandering life full-time, herding cattle and sheep and horses for a living and trading for what else they needed. Then Ken Larsson had given a brief but colorful description of a north-plains winter in a teepee or equivalent, which had been enough to put paid to that. Plus the bit about their grandchildren being-literally-louse-eating nomads.
Susan Woburn came out with two big plates of bacon-lettuce-and-tomato sandwiches in her hands; Havel took one eagerly, with a word of thanks. They didn't eat bacon very often-pigs really weren't very practical to drive along for long distances-and they got fresh greens less often than that. There was even mayonnaise, and just eating light risen bread was a treat-on the move it kept falling and rising again, and ended up: chewy was the most charitable way to describe it.
Woburn nodded to his wife. "Thanks, honey: At least we haven't been short of food, praise God," he said. "And we shouldn't be next year, even with all the damage the Devil Dogs have done. If we can get things in order soon."
Ken Larsson leaned back from his sketch. "This is best we can do. Combination of the original plans and the latest intelligence."
Havel brought his sandwich over. "Damn, that does look like a fort," he said. "All right, what about doorknockers?"
Ken fanned out a selection of diagrams. "This is what I think we can make, given the materials available."
Havel nodded, impressed. He noted that Woburn looked a lot less happy.
"The problem is: well, to tell the truth, the problem is that: "
"You can't get enough men together to surround the place," Havel said. "Not after getting whipped last time. Lots of people finding excuses for not showing up."
Woburn nodded, mouth drawn in a bitter line. "What I need is a big win," he said. "Beating the crap out of a bunch of them. I could get the support I need after that."
His hand-the one not holding a sandwich-clenched into a fist and came down on his knee. "And then there'd be some changes around here! We're not doing half the things we should. Too much talk, not enough action."
I detect a certain amount of bitterness, Havel thought.
It occurred to him that if Woburn did come out on top, things might get quite uncomfortable for temporizers and those who'd tried to play both sides against the middle.
Hereditary Sheriff Woburn the First? Not my business how things turn out here, he thought. I'm just passing through: and they could do worse. Duke Iron Rod is a chancre that needs cauterizing. Not unlike his big-city patron.
"What we need," he said aloud, "is to cut up a couple of their raiding parties. For that we need recon. How big a gang do they send out?"
"Two dozen on a serious raid, give or take," Woburn said. "Enough to swarm any resistance on a single farm and get away fast. Usually they set out around dawn. They probably won't try again for a while after the most recent lot. But I don't see how you can intercept them any better than we can. It's not as if we could sneak someone up onto Cotton wood Butte with a radio!"
"What we need," Havel went on, "is aerial recon."
Woburn snorted. "That's not funny. Why not wish for a couple of working tanks?"
Havel grinned, and saw a frown of puzzlement growing on Woburn's face.
He went on: "You're forgetting something, Sheriff; truth is, I hadn't thought of it until my last trip down the Columbia Gorge. Electricity doesn't work anymore, and guns neither. But hot air still rises. Got much propane left around here?"
Billy Waters sat on the curb and watched men and a few women going in and out of the tavern. It had been one before the Change, one of three in Craigswood; it was the only one left now. A sort of sour half-spoiled smell came from the buildings to its rear, and he recognized the scent-mash getting ready for the still, with an undertone of beer fermenting. The thought made him smile a bit, and he hummed a few bars of "Copperhead Road"; then the pain in his lips brought reality crashing back.
The day was bright and warm, but he shivered. Memories tormented him; the smooth heat of the whiskey going down his throat, and the sweet hiss of the cap coming off the beer bottle, the first cool draught chasing the fire all the way to his belly:
Just one, he thought. Havel wouldn't mind if it was just one. He never told anyone not to take one drink. Hellfire, he likes his beer, and a whiskey now and-then.
A horse-drawn wagon made from a cut-down truck went past while he was thinking, and nursing the bruises. He touched his face gingerly, trying to summon up enough anger to get him across the street and into the tavern.
The problem was that he couldn't; all he could feel was fear.
He could feel anger at Jane, for making him hit her, and at that deceitful little bitch Nancy, and at Reuben for trying to hit his own father, but when he thought about Havel it was as if a white light filled his head, like it had the day of the Change.
All he could feel was the pain and the fear.
I can stand up to him! he thought. I can "Excuse me," someone said.
Waters looked up. The man standing over him on the sidewalk looked nondescript; not young, not middle-aged, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, cowboy boots and Budweiser billed cap.