He bent over the water's edge, looked down, and saw amid sunset colors a very young man with a grimy older man's face, thin, lightly beard-stubbled, windburned and weary. He would have known himself – but only after an instant's puzzlement.
Grimy… And as if with the sight, the stink of old sweat, worn stockings, and dirty buckskins came quite strongly.
He stood back, unbuckled his sword-belt, and balanced heron-wise on one leg, then the other, to pull off his boots. Then he walked down into the water. Its chill, halfway up his buckskins, shocked him to stillness, so he stood only wriggling stockinged toes in frigid fine sand until he grew used enough to go on – and finally, with a gasp, submerged himself in a dark-green world so bitterly cold it seemed to bite him.
Baj stood up in soaked cloth and buckskin – the water to his waist, the evening air now seeming wonderfully warm – and stomped in place, raising dark clouds of sand and green stuff around him. Then he stooped for handfuls of that fine sand and began to scrub his clothes with it as if it were ash-lye soap.
When he'd done what he could for deerskin, far-south cotton, and wool, he stripped the soaked stuff off, threw it up onto a shelf of rock, and scrubbed himself – a painful process with sand and cold water. His scalp and long hair particularly painful to rub hard and rinse, rub hard and rinse…
Finished, his skin sore and stinging, Baj rung out his hair as best he could, and marched splashing up out of the water – the air feeling so much warmer. He bent to slide his dagger from its sheath, then knelt naked at the pond's edge to stare down at his reflection, and shave.
Another painful process. Anyone doubting that hot water, fine soaps and lotions were markers of civilization, could be quickly convinced by shaving with a slim-bladed weapon in ice water on a mountaintop.
Considering, watching his face reflected in fading evening light as the dagger whispered coarsely down his cheek… considering, Baj decided to let his mustache – admittedly not yet much of a mustache – to let that grow. He would certainly look older with it.
… Finished, now blade-sore as well as sand-sore, he dragged his sodden clothes on (all but the stockings), laced the buckskin trousers, buttoned the shirt and leather jerkin, then picked up his sword-belt and boots and went barefoot back up the slope, a wet stocking over each shoulder, the dagger in his free hand.
He shoved through the stand of evergreens – darkening with the first of night – and stepped, dripping, up to the fire.
His odd companions seemed pleased by what they saw. The boy, Errol, smiled. Nancy covered her mouth.
"Not cold?" Richard said. The night wind rising was a north wind. The fire bent and bannered to it.
"A little."
While the three of them watched, entertained, Baj bent to dry his dagger on a blanket corner – sheathed it, and set his weapons-belt aside. Then he stood close before the fire, stretched his arms wide, and turned slowly around and around while drenched buckskin and dripping cloth began to steam.
The Persons seemed very pleased by that, and Errol stood up across the fire, stretched his arms out, and began to turn in imitation, as if joining a tribal dance.
The fire burned close enough, and hot enough, that Baj began to feel less chill – and reminded himself not to dry the buckskins completely, so they'd stiffen and shrink. Same with the cotton shirt, as far as shrinking… Laundry matters, and who would have dreamed they'd ever be a concern of his?
He slowly turned and turned – Errol, expressionless, turning precisely with him across the fire – and felt the cloth drying on his back, felt a warning tightness in his buckskin trousers… so stepped a little away from the flames.
As he did, Nancy tossed a pork rind aside, stood – hesitated to find the unison – then joined so the three of them spun together.
Richard clapped heavy hands to keep the beat, heaved to standing in his odd way, and began massively revolving with them, half-humming, "Boom… boom… boom." So they all turned and turned, arms outstretched, sending long fire-shadows whirling across the mountain slope.
… So primitive a dance seemed to have been dance enough when morning came. Baj – smelling, he thought, at least a little better than before – noticed an easing of difference. Perhaps only an easing of his perception of difference, so Nancy seemed less changeable; Richard less remote. Errol remained as he had, a step aside.
It seemed to Baj, as breakfast pork was finished, and private morning shits were taken in the evergreens, that he appeared to be living a sort of epic poem, though with a farcical element. Perhaps too much of a farcical element – thoughtless arrogance turned to terrified flight – for serious poetry.
But good stories, perhaps to be told later. If there was a later.
… Down one wooded mountain… then up the next. By sun-overhead, Baj found he'd developed a permanent prejudice against up-and-down country. The River had flowed level, its banks had been level – even in flood – and it seemed that style of country was in his bones. Perhaps from his First-father's prairies as well. Level seemed… more sensible.
They chewed sliced ham as they climbed, drank from canteen and water-skins along the ridge, then stoppered them descending. Baj found the beauty of these steep places, a beauty greener with short summer's every day, their only compensation – at least at the pace Richard and Nancy set. But he kept up, buckskins a little stiff, a little tight.
"And we hurry," he said to the Made-girl – they were managing along a rough fracture-ledge with nothing beautiful about it, "- we hurry to get where?"
"To meet the Guard, campaigning in Shrike country," slightly lisping the word's beginning. Thrike.
"Ah… I see," Baj said, and was sorry he'd asked and been reminded. That tribe had been heard of even far west on the River – as ferocious, with a custom of impaling living men and women on tall, shaped spikes of ice (or sharpened wooden stakes in warmer weather) in imitation of their unpleasant totem bird. "Wonderful…"
Nancy grinned, reached over and patted his arm. His bitten arm – which now only itched.
There were odors – once they'd gotten off the cliff ledge – odors of wildflowers, of woods herbs just springing, sweeter than any Baj remembered. The River had smelled only of meltwater, and the traces men left in its currents. The coast woods also had had something of that dankness to them… which these mountain forests did not, their meadows certainly not, since they were carpeted with coming flowers. Pink lady's-shoe, Baj had seen before, and blossoming clover. But the others – yellows, tiny foliate azures – he wasn't sure of, perhaps had never noticed, if they grew in lowlands.
The perfume of those, when he crossed a clearing behind Richard's tireless padding, was delicate at first as if it were the sunlight's own odor, then grew stronger on a breeze.
In one such meadow – deeply slanting off a mountain's crest – Baj stopped with the others as if the grand view commanded their attention. Through the clear air of late afternoon, without even a sailing hawk or raven to mark the sky's cloud-tumbled blue, rank on rank of mountains – their slopes dark with spruce and hemlock forest – marched away for endless Warm-time miles.
"All those to be climbed, I suppose."
Richard looked back, smiling. "Not all, Baj."
"Only most," Nancy said, hitched her pack higher, and made what Baj had found to be her usual slight springing bound, that settled to swift walking. She led down off the meadow, where shaded worn stone hollows still held fragile traceries of snow, and Baj and Richard followed along… Errol, traveling unusually close, skipped and hopped beside then behind them, sometimes stooping for pebbles to throw sidearm at nothing in particular.