She turned and walked away… or waddled, as Judy would have put it. The rest of the prisoners crowded along behind her, until she spread her arms to remind them to hang back a little. Still, the distance to her buggy seemed eternal, the climb into it hard-even with Eilir and Astrid to assist, and as well try to catch the moon with a spoon as keep them back! The whole party walked back to the safety of the allied armies…
Armies! She thought. And aren't we getting grand! That Astrid has a talent for the grandiloquent, that she does!
Luther Finney waited with the others; he was the University Committee's man here, though not in command of their militia.
"Juney, you've got more guts than sense!" he scolded. "You shouldn't be doing that sort of thing in your condition!"
Juniper smiled at him. "Well, why not, Luther? I'm doing it for him, too."
She laid her hand on her stomach and looked at Mike Havel. "What better reason?"
He nodded soberly. "And that was quite a speech, too," he said. "I think-"
Everyone froze as her expression altered. "Oh, my," she said, both hands on her stomach this time. "Oh, my."
Dennis and Chuck were at her side as if by magic, supporting her elbows.
"I think someone should fetch Judy," Juniper said. "This feeling's all too familiar."
Exhausted, Juniper lay back against the pillows and looked down at the tiny crumpled face in the crook of her arm; amazed blue eyes looked back at her from beneath a faint fuzz of wispy red-gold hair. For once she didn't feel guilty about having a fair-sized tent all to herself; the baby needed warmth, and the Coleman stove and air mattress made it fairly comfortable.
"And my own battered, stretched, sore-isn't-the-word self can use a little comfort," she muttered to herself.
Thank You, she added to the image of the Mother-of-All on the portable altar in one corner of the tent. Incense burned there, sweet amid the canvas-and-earth scents and the underlying tang of sweat and blood.
Judy came back in, buttoning the sleeves of her shirt and yawning; she'd taken out the last of the soiled linen, and the birthing stool.
"Half the camp is still up," she said. "The other half is getting up and asking for the news. You'd think nobody had ever had a baby before."
"Born on a battlefield, poor mite," Juniper said. "My little Rudi, my warmth in a darkling time."
A voice coughed outside. Juniper sighed, weary but not ready to sleep just yet.
"Yes, yes," she said.
Four men crowded in; Dennis, Aylward, Luther Finney… and Mike Havel. He was out of his armor and padding, looking younger and less strange-more as a man might have before the Change.
He was also carrying a tray; porridge cooked with dried apples and cherries, cream, scrambled eggs. Juniper's nose twitched, and she was suddenly conscious of a bottomless hunger, deeper than anything since the harvest.
Judy took the well-wrapped baby and handed him to Luther; the elderly farmer took the tiny bundle with the calm ease of experience as father and grandfather and great-grandfather.
As she helped Juniper sit up and fluffed the pillows, Judy launched a preemptive strike:
"Easy ten-hour delivery, nice bouncing six pounds, eight ounces baby boy, with all the limbs and facilities-including good hearing, by the way."
The women's eyes met: And you'd scarcely know he's nearly a month early.
"And a good set of lungs, as you may have heard earlier. He's eaten; the mother should now."
The other men awkwardly admired the baby. The flap of the tent opened again as Eilir darted in with Astrid on her heels.
Mom! she signed, her gestures broad with excitement. Mom! Someone inside hit the baron on the head with an ax, and they're fighting each other-the ones who want to surrender have opened the gate! Chuck's going there now!
Luther Finney put the infant back on Juniper's stomach, careful even in his haste. Her arms took it, but her eyes held Mike Havel for an instant.
"Mike… keep my word for me," she said quietly.
A silent nod, and he was gone. She sighed and lay back; a wail, and she put the baby, to her breast.
"It's not the quietest of worlds, my sweetling," she murmured, stroking his cheek. "But I'll try to make it the best I can for you."
Thirty-three
Yeah, she's calling him Rudi-after her husband; he didn't make it through the day of the Change," Mike Havel said.
They were all standing and watching with satisfaction as the long wagon train trundled west through the little town of Sisters and up Route 20. The wagons-everything from old buckboards from rodeo shows to post-Change made-from-anything makeshifts-were loaded high with the Bearkillers' gear, but all of it was on a solid foundation of plump grain sacks, usually two or three deep. It was eerily appropriate that Cascade Street was lined with false-front stores like something out of a Western movie; pre-Change pretense and makeshifts done after the Change in desperate earnest.
The horses' breath puffed out in the chill as they bent to the traces, but the road was smooth and still dry…
At least here, Havel thought, looking westward at the clouds that hid the mountains. I hope to hell we don't get any more snow-we've had to shovel more than I like already. And this is definitely the last load until spring!
Signe was walking well now if she was careful, but her left arm was in a sling and immobilizing elastic bandage. Every once in a while she'd reach over and, very very cautiously, scratch. Right now she was obviously counting back nine months, reaching a conclusion that pleased her, and smiling.
"I sort of envy her," she said wistfully. "So much death… it makes you feel better, new lives starting."
"Well, when you're feeling better-" Mike grinned and dodged as she cuffed at him with her good arm.
"Are you sure it's all right for us to drop in on them?" Signe said. "I'd love to, but-"
"We're just taking the headquarters group," Havel said. "Bearkillers are still the blue-eyed boys with our allies; they want to give us a feed before we settle in."
"We're going to be busy this winter," her father said, only half paying attention to the discussion. "How many did you say were living in the area we've been handed?"
"About two thousand, including the ex-POWs who want to settle on our land," Havel said. "Which puts our total numbers up by eight times overnight! Mostly it's people who managed to survive hiding out in the hills; families and little groups. Surprising so many came through, so close to Salem… but human beings are tough."
He thought for a moment. "A lot of them are at the end of their tethers, wouldn't make it through the winter. How much land would you say it would take to support a family?"
Ken Larsson began to scratch his head, then stopped when he realized he was about to use his steel hook.
"In the Willamette? Well, real intensive gardening style… say five acres. It's good land and the weather's reliable."
Havel nodded, feeling things slip into place in his head.
"OK, let's kill a lot of birds with a few stones. Look, we've got a hundred and twenty A-lister fighters to support. An armored lancer takes a lot of supporting; it's not just the gear and horses, though those're no joke. He-"
Pamela stood with her hand on Ken's shoulder; she cleared her throat ostentatiously.
"- or she, in some cases… anyway, they need time to practice. So they can't be farming all the time. And we can't have them all camping on the front lawn and hand them a peck of meal and a side of bacon every week, either. Christ Jesus, it's inconvenient, not having any money! Swapping's so damned slow and clumsy. So, we've got a lot of vacant land, a lot of people with no seed, stock or tools, and an army to support-an army we're definitely going to need for the foreseeable future. Let's put 'em together."