A few minutes later they passed the collapsed, ripped-up body of a woman. They didn't alter their pace.
«They,» said Sister Windchime after a while, «are going to die, aren't they? Soon?»
Rivas glanced at her. «One way or another, yeah. They won't make it to a town.»
«Then it didn't do any good, did it? Interfering. All we did was . . . delay them a little, in their trip to the Dogtown gate.»
Rivas was busy worrying about his episode of unfeigned birdy orthodoxy up on the hidden slope-crest road, and even this slang confirmation of his guess that she was an Ellay girl didn't make him want to talk. «Right,» he said shortly. «Goddamn waste of time.»
For another half mile they rode on in silence while the sunlight began to cast a warm light on the greenery to their left and silhouette it to their right; then Sister Windchime said, «Why do I feel like you have to do what you can to help? Even when you know in advance it won't do any good.»
«Because you're sinful,» said Rivas impatiently. «Now shut up, will you?»
«Would it be all right,» she ventured a little later, «if we stopped for a few minutes? I think I need to do some more Sanctified Dancing.»
Rivas groaned. «We're in a hurry, okay? Do it in the saddle.»
After that they rode on in silence, Sister Windchime stiff with resentment and Rivas frightened—frightened of what he was getting into and of what was happening to his mind
* * *
They carefully avoided all other groups of fugitives and by early evening they'd reached their destination. Viewed from above as they crested the last of the rounded, brush-covered hills, the huge Regroup Tent in the valley below them looked, Rivas thought dizzily as he swayed on the back of the horse, like a vast bony beast huddling under a patchwork blanket big enough to drape around God's shoulders. Up where they were, Rivas and Sister Windchime were still dazzled by the red sun sinking over the Pacific Ocean, but the tent was already in shadow, and lamps and torches bobbed like fireflies in the valley.
In spite of himself, Rivas slowly turned his head to the southeast, knowing what lay in that direction. And yes, there it was on the far side of the Seal Beach Desolate, the Holy City, its wall just visible as a pale rectangular segment on the horizon. He shivered, not entirely because of the cold sea wind that stirred the dry grass on the miles-separated hilltops.
With no sensation of relief he let his gaze fall back into the dark valley that lay open to him below his horse's hooves. He remembered how easily and totally he had succumbed to the mind-sapping techniques of Sister Sue and her band, and how difficult it had been to float back up into his own identity. I didn't even know how old I was, he thought now with a tight mix of sadness and panic. And this afternoon I delivered all those birdy homilies to this girl sincerely!
Only for you, Uri, he thought as he nudged his horse forward and down, would I do this.
In less than a minute the chilly sea wind and the sunlight and the view of the ocean were behind and above him. Up from below came warmth and the smell of rancid cooking oil.
«Not so fast, Brother Thomas,» called Sister Windchime behind him. «Your horse will trip in the shadows.»
«How nonessential of you to remember my name,» he snarled without looking back.
Rivas had been to the Regroup Tent only once, more than a decade ago, and in the years since he'd forgotten how big the thing was. Now as his horse slid and clattered down the slope, kicking up a plume of gray dust that was red lit at its breeze-flattened top, he began to remember details: that there were streets and tents inside it, and that the highest sections of the roof were seldom visible from inside because of the upwardly pooled smoke from all the cooking fires, and that for half an hour or so at night, especially after a hot day, you could hear a low whistling that was the warmer interior air escaping through the stitching of the million seams.
The path leveled out and, having given vent to some of his apprehension by his plunging descent, Rivas reined in and waited for Sister Windchime to catch up. It'd be idiotic to ditch her now, he told himself, after you've put up with her all the way down.
She stared at him when she rode up alongside. «You're a strange one, Brother Thomas. You act so bitter, but I've never seen anyone so anxious to get back to the Lord.»
He made himself smile. «Being away makes me bitter. I'm sorry. I'll be perfect when we get there.»
«I think we should both take the sacrament as soon as we get in, don't you?»
«Well—ofcourse ,» he said wildly. «Let's go. You can lead for a while—I think I may have lamed my horse a little there.»
As she nudged her mount ahead, he let his horse follow at its own pace and weighed his choices. It would look good, he had to admit, to rush in begging for the sacrament; the problem was that they'd probably be given it. So did he want to use the drunk defense—there was the third of a bottle of Currency—or the newly discovered pain defense?
Somehow, taking into account his weariness and fever– and the fact that he couldn't approach the tent with the liquor—the answer was inevitable. He pulled the bottle out of his shirt, held it down where the girl wouldn't see it if she turned around, and with his good hand he thumbed the cork out. He heard it rustle in the dry grass. And then every time it was clear that her attention would be devoted for a few moments to guiding her horse, he'd raise one arm as if pointing out emerging stars to her, and behind this cover– in case anyone below might be looking up—he'd raise the brandy bottle and swallow a couple of mouthfuls. The warm fumy liquor choked him, but he forced down gulp after gulp, and when he knew that one more drop would undo all his labor he let the nearly empty bottle fall noiselessly into a thick green bush. He'd ridden a few yards further before he realized that the bush was wild anise. He halted his horse and goaded it back, then with a cry toward Sister Windchime he swung his leg over and jumped into the bush.
He buried his face in the greenery and as he heard the thudding of her horse's returning hoof beats he ripped up handfuls of the ferny plant, shoved them into his mouth and chomped them up.
To his surprise he felt her hand on his shoulder and realized that she'd actually dismounted to help him, or at least to satisfy curiosity. «Are you all right, Brother Thomas?»
He got up unsteadily, his recent actions having accelerated the alcohol's invasion of his blood stream. «Yeah, thanks, I was dizzy—» He brushed bits of greenery out of his hair and spat out a leaf or two. «Dizzier than I thought, not really well enough to ride all day, I guess . . . went to sleep and fell off, and I . . . banged my head a good knock on the ground just now.»
He grinned foolishly at her. Perfect, he thought. I killed the brandy smell on my breath and at the same time established an alibi for any drunken lurching or babbling I may do: Poor guy —evidently a concussion. And I get to be drunk, too.
«Let's walk the rest of the way,» said Sister Windchime. «Wait here while I get the horses.»
The sky was a deep cobalt blue by the time they'd wound their way down the increasingly well-constructed path to the valley floor, and when Rivas looked up he saw that a lot of stars were already visible, seeming to hang not too far above the highest peak of the tent. Lowering his head, a bit jerkily, he saw several makeshift towers like the ones that had ringed the field in the Cerritos Stadium, and, closer at hand, an approaching figure silhouetted by the cooking fires behind it. The figure was tall and broad and carried a staff, and for one moment of drunken panic Rivas thought it was the same shepherd who had stomped his pelican and. shot him, and whom he'd killed, the day before yesterday. «Children,» rumbled this shepherd, «welcome home. What band are you from?»